Red Handed
by Polaris'05
Summary: What starts out as a Spring Break helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with Atlanta's biggest organized crime syndicates. But one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that he may never recover from...
1. In Which The Adventure Begins

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. Oh yeah, and I don't own the Hardy Boys. Enjoy! :)_

_Polaris_

* * *

**Red Handed**

"Joe!"

The call cut across the early morning calm, disrupting the peace and solitude of the Hardy household. It was followed immediately by footsteps pounding up the stairs and a door being slammed open.

"Joe!" Frank Hardy crossed his brother's bedroom floor in two steps and grabbed Joe's shoulder, shaking him awake. "Come on, Joey, get up!"

At the sound of his brother's voice, Joe was immediately on alert. Sitting up quickly, his eyes darted around the room.

"What's wrong, Frank?" he demanded, jumping out of bed and looking around for the source of the trouble.

"Wrong?" Frank wrinkled his nose. "Nothing's wrong! Come on, wake up! Dad says if we want to help him with this case then we have to be ready to go in five minutes." He glanced down at his watch. "That was four minutes ago. I'm packed, we're waiting on you!"

"What?" Joe yelped. "How did it take you four minutes to get up here and tell me that? How am I supposed to be ready in one minute?"

"Not by yelling at me," Frank sniffed. "Let's go, move it!" Turning around, he dashed from the room and back down the stairs. Joe shook his head, hurrying to put on the nearest clothes he could find and pull his duffel from the top of his closet. Frank had far too much energy for a Monday morning, even if they_ were _on spring break. Of course, Joe was normally even more hyperactive than his older brother, at least when he was fully charged, so Frank's energy rarely caught him off guard. Sometimes it was even amusing.

Mostly, though, it was just exasperating.

Joe had just finished throwing anything he thought might be useful into his duffel when the pounding footsteps heralded Frank's approach for the second time.

"Three… two… one…" Joe muttered under his breath, listening to the footsteps. Sure enough, Joe had just finished counting when Frank burst into the room yet again, hopping around impatiently.

"Come _on_, Joe!" the older brother urged. "We're leaving _now_!"

"I'm coming!" Joe yelled, his own energy level starting to pick up as he became more awake. "Just settle down for two minutes, will you?" He grinned in spite of himself though; he was just as excited as Frank was to be helping their father with one of his cases. Some parents would be horrified at the idea of taking two young boys so close to danger, but Fenton Hardy was no fool. He did not expect this particular case to be dangerous, and he had made triple-sure it was cleared with his wife.

Sprinting after Frank down the stairs, Joe stopped briefly in the kitchen to grab an apple for the road and to say good-bye to Laura Hardy, sitting at the table with a newspaper and a cup of coffee.

"Bye, Mom," he said, kissing her on the cheek as he scrambled around the counter in a frenzy.

"Slow down," she answered automatically as Joe skidded on the linoleum floor in his haste. "Bye, sweetie. Be safe, ok?"

"Sure thing!" he called, running from the room and out to the car where Fenton and Frank were already waiting impatiently.

"Ok, I'm here!" Joe wheezed, breathing heavily. "Go, go!"

* * *

As the airplane took them towards Atlanta, Fenton closed his eyes and laid his head back in the seat, listening with amusement and pride as his two sons chatted excitedly between themselves, anticipating the case ahead.

He smiled to himself. They had helped him on cases before, and were already fairly skilled as detectives, particularly for being as young as they were. The foundation was definitely set. When they got older – and maybe calmed down a little – they would be a truly formidable team. He frowned suddenly. _If_ they ever calmed down a little. Their conversation had gradually become quite a bit louder than 'inside voices' and turned into arguing.

"Did you boys finish reading the file?" Fenton asked quietly, leaning over to them and interrupting their arguement. "You know when we get to Atlanta we're going to have to meet with Juarez right away, so you won't have time to catch up later."

"Yup," Frank answered, guiltily lowering his voice back to normal. Joe nodded, also realizing that their talking had gotten - once again - too loud.

"Good," Fenton said with a smile. At least they caught on quickly. "Let's go over the details then."

"The case is for Almonzo Juarez," Joe began dutifully. "He's a small business owner in Atlanta and he suspects that one of his top employees has been embezzling funds."

"He's already tried going to the police," Frank continued, reciting the details that both boys had already committed to memory. "But they can't do anything without evidence, and Juarez doesn't have any. The police don't want to help him out because he's paranoid and has come to them before with all sorts of claims that have yet to turn out being true."

"What's the suspect's name?" Fenton grilled them.

"Bill Steinway," both the brothers answered together. "He's the company accountant," Joe added. "He's worked for Juarez for almost two years, but they never got along."

"And our plan of action?" Fenton asked, his face unreadable. They had not yet discussed what exactly they were going to do when they landed, and he was interested in what his boys would come up with. If he had hoped to trip them up with the question, however, he was disappointed. Clearly this had been part of their discussion before they had gotten too rowdy.

"We thought we could start by going over the company records," Frank answered, his face growing serious for a change. "Just to prove that funds are, in fact, disappearing. We can talk to the local police and get a warrant to get Juarez's and Steinway's phone and financial records. They might not want to help Juarez out themselves, but if we're the ones doing the work it shouldn't be too hard to get them to cooperate."

"When we find something," Joe continued, optimistically opting for 'when' as opposed to 'if'. "We arrest Steinway and the day is saved!"

Hiding a smile at the last statement, Fenton eyed his boys carefully. He liked what he heard. It was a good plan: simple was usually best. It had been well thought out and would make perfectly logical sense to anyone, with one exception.

"Why do you want Juarez's phone and financial records?" the private investigator asked Frank, his face still unreadable.

"In case he's trying to frame Steinway, and he's really stealing the money himself," Frank answered, apparently confused as to why this hadn't been obvious. "Everyone's a suspect, isn't that what you always say? It just seems that no one ever remembers to include the man who's paying you the money."

At this, Fenton actually did laugh out loud. Frank and Joe glanced at each other in confusion. It had made sense to _them, _they weren't sure what was amusing about the fact.

"Well said, Frank!" Fenton finally managed to say amid gasps of laughter. "That's very astute of you... but in this case I don't think you have to worry about the 'man who's paying you the money'. Juarez is an old friend of mine, that's why he called me up on this case. Take my word for it, he's not the type who would steal from himself and then accuse someone else."

"Oh," Frank sighed, disappointed. Fenton continued chuckling and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"It really was a good thought though, Frank," he said. "I'm proud of you boys... it was a good plan you came up with, and I think we'll go ahead and follow it. With any luck at all, we'll have this solved and be home by Thursday."

* * *

While the Hardys were flying into Atlanta, two other men were busy at work in a rundown area of the city. Moving quickly and silently, the two hurried about their business, moving crates out of the back of a truck and into a large storage warehouse. They kept their hats pulled low over their faces and their jackets zipped tightly up to their neck. Their heads were pointed down to the ground, though they continuously scanned the streets around them, checking over their shoulder to make sure no one disturbed them.

When the truck was empty and the storage garage full, the two men closed and padlocked the door before getting into the truck and driving away. One of them pulled out a cell phone and pressed the first number on speed dial. When a voice on the other end answered, he broke the silence in the cab for the first time.

"Tell him we're ready."

* * *

_TBC_


	2. In Which There Are Many Messes

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks so much to all those who reviewed! Thanks to EVERYONE who read... even you folks who didn't leave me a review. I appreciate it anyways. I guess. :) As always, I don't own the Hardys._

_Polaris_

* * *

"Hardy!"

The call came cutting across the airport terminal, which was bustling with activity. It seemed that people from all corners of the world were present, moving in every direction to where the room was so packed there was barely room to breath, let alone walk. The Hardys had disembarked from the plane and gone to retrieve their luggage, Fenton being sure to keep one eye on either of his sons.

Even over the chatter of the entire terminal, however, there was no missing the voice of Almonzo Juarez. As he heard his name, Fenton turned in the direction of the call and broke into a smile as he saw his old friend waving him over.

"'Monzo!" he called back, ushering his sons to keep up. "How are you doing, you old devil?"

Almonzo Juarez was one of the largest men that Frank and Joe had ever met. His deeply tanned, Puerto Rican face was friendly and warm, and his smile seemed genuine. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, but they seemed to give off a light of their own even in the cool darkness of the terminal. Frank and Joe could see immediately why their father liked and trusted this man.

"Hardy," he said again, his arms stretched out as wide as his smile. "Well enough, _señor_, under the circumstances." Embracing the private investigator in a huge hug, Juarez turned next to Frank and Joe, waiting behind Fenton.

"And these are your sons, no?" his loud, accented voice boomed. "_Hola_, young Hardys," Juarez continued, not waiting for an answer. "Glad to see you, glad to see you. Welcome to Atlanta."

"'Monzo, this is Frank," Fenton introduced his sons, gesturing to the taller boy. "And this is Joe. They're going to be helping me out on your case."

"You look like your father," Juarez pointed out, nodding to Frank. "Let's just hope you three can figure this out for me, no?"

"No," Joe agreed, nodding. He stopped and thought, frowning, before he amended himself. "I mean, yes."

The two older men laughed heartily before Juarez ushered them all outside. The three Hardys picked up their duffels and followed the large Puerto Rican out of the airport and down to the street where a car was waiting for them.

* * *

Jeremy Paulson was pleased. His new storage garage had been set up without a hitch. Due to unfortunate circumstances, it had been necessary to move his entire stock from a downtown building to a new location. One of which the police had _not_ been made aware.

At this time yesterday, his former headquarters had still been a mystery to the authorities. He was a careful man – being a mob boss tended to require such a personality – and he enforced his rules of caution ruthlessly.

Paulson sat behind his desk in his exotically furnished office, polishing a well-cared for pistol. He turned it over in his hands, examining the gleaming weapon. One of his men had been careless. Secrets had been compromised, locations had been given away. Paulson's entire stock – drugs, weapons, black market items, illegally imported artifacts, money – had been moved to the new building by his most trusted men. They were now ready to resume operations.

But not before Paulson made sure that this would never be an issue again.

The heavy doors to his office slammed open and three men entered the room. The one in the middle looked apprehensive, his eyes darting every which way as though looking for a way out. The two other men flanking him seemed to notice, because each put a heavy hand on the trembling man's shoulders to make sure he stayed put.

"So, Andrews," Paulson began, not looking up from the gun he was polishing. "Your mistake has been fixed. Everything is in the new garage, and there is no danger in the police finding us."

"That… that's good to hear," the man named Andrews stuttered, unable to tear his eyes away from the gun in Paulson's hands. He was determined not to look down at the floor, because he knew he was standing precisely over a wide swath of carpet that was covered in dried blood. Paulson had killed dozens of men for far less than the mistake that Andrews had committed, and he left the floor tainted by their blood as a reminder to the rest of his men. Andrews knew without a doubt that he was about to die.

"You cost us an entire day, Andrews," Paulson continued silkily. "Because of you we had to suspend operations while everything was moved across town. Why is this?"

"I'm sorry," Andrews whispered, now hardly able to stand from fear. "I-I… I'm sorry."

Paulson looked up, meeting Andrews's eyes at last. Frightened, frantic eyes caught hold of cold, merciless ones and Andrews nearly passed out.

"Yes," Paulson said, his voice low and his smile ruthless. "Yes, Andrews, you are."

Moving slowly, almost lazily, Paulson leveled the pistol at Andrews and pulled the trigger. The last thing Andrews ever saw was the smirking, vicious face of Jeremy Paulson.

"Get it out of here," Paulson commanded, sounding almost bored, as his henchmen hurried to remove the body from the office. Paulson calmly went back to polishing his gun, not concerned in the least with the freshest addition to the rust colored pattern on the floor. The loose ends were trimmed. Nothing would be interfering now.

* * *

By the time the company car had brought the Hardys to the company's corporate office, it was already two in the afternoon. Both Frank and Joe were starving and would have liked nothing better than to pull over at the nearest McDonalds or Burger King and grab a bite to eat. Unfortunately, their father seemed to be entirely focused on helping his old friend out and had altogether forgotten about the necessity of food, as he was bound to do when on a case.

So it was with heavy hearts and empty stomachs that the two young Hardy boys entered the quiet coolness of the elevator that took them down to the sublevel of the office building, to the filing room where hopefully they would find a clue.

"Brace yourself, _amigo_," Juarez commented quietly to Fenton as soft elevator music played loftily in the background. "My organization skills are rather... less than they might be."

The elevator bell pinged once and the doors slid smoothly open. Frank and Joe's jaws dropped at the horrific sight, and even Fenton had to close his eyes and look away.

There, occupying the entire space of the sublevel room, were boxes upon boxes of files, cabinets that were full to the point of bursting with little or no labeling to be seen, loose pieces of paper strewn about the floor and in piles on desks that didn't appear to have been used since the day they arrived. There was no perceptible method of organization to the room whatsoever. The only area that remained completely clean and tidy were the garbage bins, and only because they were empty. It seemed that not one shred of paper had been discarded since the conception of the company.

"'Monzo," Fenton said with a sigh, turning to his friend. "Tell me you have the most important files set aside for us?"

"Sorry, _amigo_," Juarez answered, shaking his head. "This is not my domain... I have no idea where anything is down here. I had to fire the interns who originally took care of all my paperwork for me. Their replacements decided one day that they were going to reorganize the room. As you can see..." Juarez swept a hand around the room, gesturing at the chaos. "They were... ah... unsuccessful."

"Couldn't... couldn't we just go through Steinway's files?" Frank asked in a hopeless sounding voice as he gazed sadly around the room. "Doesn't he have his own office?"

"_Sí, amigo,_" Juarez answered, half amused and half apologetic. "At his home. I told him one day that I didn't want to have to see him when I came to work every day... and he took it to heart. He works from home but keeps all his files down here. All our financial records would be here somewhere. I am sorry I cannot be staying, _amigo_. I have business that must be attended to elsewhere. You will let me know if there is anything I can do to help, no?"

Fenton only sighed and thanked Juarez, rolling up his sleeves and wading through the sea of papers to the nearest box. Frank and Joe exchanged depressed glances. It didn't look like they were going to be getting those hamburgers any time soon.

* * *

The messenger stood in Paulson's office, carefully keeping his gaze averted from the floor. He kept his eyes locked on Paulson, knowing that he had nothing to fear. It wasn't fair to shoot the messenger, after all.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, his voice steady and his demeanor calm.

"Get in touch with the numbers runner," Paulson said, leaning back in his chair. "He's been attracting too much attention lately... I want him kept busy for a while. You will tell him that our new storage facility has been set up. You will inform him that he is to take inventory of every single solitary asset in the entire warehouse. You will let him know that if he has any complaints, he may take them up with me."

The messenger nodded and quickly departed from the office. He knew there was no chance that the numbers runner would be taking up any complaints. For one thing, contact between the boss and any of the lesser members of the organization were highly limited - hence the necessity for messengers. For another thing... one did not complain to the boss.

Paulson studied the ceiling of his office, still leaning back in his chair. That numbers runner... attracting attention was _not _advisable in their line of work. Had the man any less talent, Paulson might be tempted to simply dispose of him, but unfortunately, he was good at his job. When he remembered that his first job was to the organization, that was. Attracting attention was not advisable at all... especially when the attention was coming from Fenton Hardy. Paulson smiled. He was being overly concerned for nothing. Hardy would not be bothering them; if necessity demanded, he would see to that himself.

* * *

_TBC_


	3. In Which Frank and Joe Get Bored

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks again, kind reviewers! Keep up your wonderful work and I'll keep up mine, lol!_

_Polaris_

* * *

The Hardys had spent the better part of the last four hours searching fruitlessly through the sublevel file room. Frank and Joe had finally gotten to eat after the first two hours. Fenton had gone to call Laura to let her know how things were going, and had returned with a strangely urgent need to eat. From the slightly abashed look on their father's face, Frank and Joe were under the impression that their mother had something to do with him suddenly remembering that he was expected to feed his sons, even while working on a case.

The brief period of happiness to be eating was short lived, however, when they tossed the empty pizza boxes into the unused trash cans and realized how many more files there still was to look through. Finally, Fenton tossed down yet another file full of papers that were completely unrelated to each other and sighed.

"Tell you what," he said, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "You two boys keep looking through all this stuff. I'm going to go to see Steinway myself. Maybe he'll be willing to let me look through his office without a warrant."

"You really believe that?" Frank asked skeptically. He thought it was rather unfair that his dad got to take a break from the depressing room, even if he _was_ most likely going on a wild goose chase.

"No," Fenton answered honestly. "But it couldn't hurt, and maybe he'll let something slip. I don't expect you'll find anything while I'm gone, so just wait here for me, got it?"

"Sure, Dad," Joe said vaguely, flipping through the contents of a desk drawer. He looked up long enough to wave his father off before going back to the desk with a sigh. "Frank, I think this is a waste of time," he confided after Fenton had disappeared up the elevator.

"What on earth would make you say that?" Frank grumbled sarcastically. This was _not_ his idea of an interesting case. He had expected a little bit more action to be going on. Now all he really wanted to do was leave the cramped, dirty room.

The brothers did their best to focus on the search for financial records, but two young boys could not be expected to sit for so long without getting restless. It soon became a game to see who could find the paper with the most random and useless piece of information.

After a half hour of finding out little – other than that the building had been condemned twice, the women's restroom seemed to have a cockroach problem, the repairs to the lobby after a car had driven through it had cost more than the Hardys house, and one of the custodians was a crossdresser – the two were ready to call it quits. Joe picked up a page and was about to toss it aside after only giving it a halfhearted glance when something made him stop.

"Frank, look at this!" Joe exclaimed suddenly, examining the page of figures again. "I think I found something!"

Frank jumped to his feet in excitement, running over to Joe in a flurry of loose papers. "What?" he demanded, pulling the paper out of his brother's hand. "What's this?"

"It's a list of recent expenses," Joe answered, yanking the paper back. "Look, a storage garage was rented out using company funds just yesterday! That could be something!"

"Like what?" Frank asked, sounding disappointed. "I thought you'd found something _good_! What's so great about a garage?"

"Well…" Joe trailed off, trying to think of something. "Well, maybe… ok, fine. I don't know. But I think it's important!"

Frank only stared at his brother skeptically. Joe shrugged defensively. He couldn't explain it very well, but something was telling him that this new piece of information was somehow extremely important and ought to be looked into. He supposed it was what the old detective movies called 'gut instinct', but he was fairly sure that wouldn't be enough to convince his brother.

Of course, there was one surefire way to find out if there were any clues in the garage.

"Let's go!" Joe suggested, his eyes lighting up in excitement. "Look, the address is listed right there. Dad probably won't be back for a while! We can catch a cab and poke around the garage for a bit. Maybe we'll even find something and then we can go home!"

"I don't know," Frank said slowly. Half of him _really _wanted to get out of the filing room, but the other half was getting the strangest feeling that Joe's plan would lead them into trouble. "Dad _did _say to stay here…"

"He didn't think we'd find anything though," Joe argued, turning on his best puppy dog look. "Come on, Frank! I bet he'd be proud of us for accomplishing so much without him!"

Frank couldn't help but smile, getting enthusiastic about the idea himself. He gave into the half of him that was begging to get out into some fresh air, dismissing the ominous feelings as nerves. There was no logical reason to assume the worst.

"Ok," he agreed, getting back up and brushing off the layer of dust that had accumulated on him. "But let's leave a note in case Dad comes back while we're gone."

"Fine," Joe said, in a hurry to leave. Picking up the nearest piece of paper, he scribbled a quick note on the back before making a break for the door with Frank right behind him. Hitting the button to call the elevator down several times in impatience, the two boys hopped around the elevator door until it finally dinged open.

"Hey, better tell Mr. Juarez what's going on too," Frank pointed out. "You know, just in case."

Joe nodded and the two hurried out of the elevator on the ground floor and scanned the lobby quickly for their host. Not seeing him, Frank nudged his brother and pointed him over to the receptionist.

"Excuse me," he said politely, standing on his toes to see over the counter. "Could you tell me where Mr. Juarez is?"

"He's not here," the lady answered in a bored voice, not even looking up from the magazine she was reading. "He got called away for something."

Shrugging, Frank and Joe zipped out of the building, fighting the urge to spin around a couple times in the revolving door, and flagged down a cab. Frank and Joe Hardy, on the job!

* * *

The numbers runner for the organization slammed his clipboard down in frustration. He was being punished, he knew that perfectly well. What other word was there for being forced to do _inventory_? The boss was not happy to have Fenton Hardy in town. Well, it couldn't be helped, why didn't the boss realize that?

He sighed. He didn't dare complain to Paulson, but this was ridiculous. He had more important things to do than check off lists of dirty merchandise and piles of drugs. Damn Andrews for slipping up! If he hadn't been shooting his mouth off in public, the cops wouldn't have been tipped off and then _he_ wouldn't be there right now.

Of course, knowing Paulson, Andrews was probably dead already.

The numbers runner paused suddenly as he heard a car pull up outside, stop, and then drive off. He frowned. Nobody else was supposed to be coming. Could it be a raid? No, the cops couldn't possibly know anything. Maybe it was the messenger again.

Choosing to take the cautious road just in case, the man ducked behind a crate that was stationed close to the front door – which, he noticed with chagrin, he had forgotten to lock – so he would have a good look at the intruders before they ever saw him.

Outside, Frank and Joe watched as the cabbie that had brought them there drove off. Joe sighed and turned to glare accusingly at Frank.

"You were supposed to tell him to wait for us," he grumbled. "_You're_ the one who took Spanish."

"I _did_ tell him to stay!" Frank snapped in annoyance. "I don't think he was Spanish."

"Well, what the heck are we supposed to do for a ride now?" Joe demanded. "How do we get back? Dad's gonna have a fit when he finds out you decided to leave."

Frank chose to ignore the blatant fact that it had been Joe's idea, not his own, to come here. Grabbing Joe's jacket, he pulled his younger brother toward the garage. "Not if we find something in here," he said determinedly. "We're here now, and it doesn't look like anyone else is. Let's take a look."

Frank never knew what hit him as he entered the storage garage. He had barely walked through the door when he was suddenly thrown across the room and landed hard on the floor. He let out a yell as pain shot through his shoulder and the arm that he had landed on, but all his discomfort was forgotten as he heard Joe let out a similar shout.

"Joey!" he yelled, jumping to his feet. He turned to face the entrance, stopping short at the sight that greeted him.

Joe was held fast by two strong hands. One had Joe's arm twisted up behind him, the other was clenched tightly around a sharp knife that hovered dangerously close to Joe's neck. Joe squirmed and twisted, but the man holding him only twisted his arm harder and dug the knife in, causing him to gasp in pain and hold still.

"Well, you boys are in trouble now."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *

_A/N: ominous music So... who is the mobster? Is it the mysterious Steinway, or is it Fenton's old friend Juarez? Poor Frank and Joe, if this guy doesn't kill them, their dad will... review! :)_


	4. In Which Something VERY BAD Happens

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks, reviewers! You're awesome, as always! Keep it up, and I'll give you more chapters, lol!_

_Polaris_

* * *

Fenton Hardy sighed as he entered the company building of his old friend. His trip out to Steinway's house had not produced any results, except for giving him time to clear his head from the dusty sublevel room. The company accountant had not been home, and Fenton knew better than to break in and look around. It would have been an unnecessary risk, and nothing he found could have been used in court anyways.

But, it _had_ been nice to take a break. And who knew? Maybe his sons stumbled on something while he was gone. Fenton shook his head, chuckling to himself. It was more likely that he would go down and find them fast asleep on a pile of paper. He knew the job he had given them was less than exciting, but he had promised Laura he wouldn't give them anything too dangerous to do. And surely even Frank and Joe couldn't get into too much trouble if they stayed in the basement.

"Boys, I'm back!" he called as he stepped out of the elevator. "Did you-" Fenton stopped short as he realized that he was speaking to an empty room. "Frank? Joe?"

Fenton frowned, not happy. Why on earth had he assumed they would stay put? They must be wandering the building somewhere. Completely overlooking the note as just another scrap of paper that meant nothing, Fenton turned and headed back upstairs.

"Excuse me," he called, retracing Frank's footsteps towards the receptionist's desk. "Did you see where my sons went? Two young boys, one brunette and one blonde?"

"You missed them," the receptionist answered, still poring over the latest celebrity gossip. "They left about fifteen minutes ago."

"_WHAT_?" Fenton yelled, making the receptionist jump and look up for the first time in surprise. By the time her gaze fell upon where Fenton would had been standing, however, he was already gone.

* * *

In the storage garage, time seemed to stand still for the three occupants within. A short-lived but ominous silence fell over them, broken quickly by the two young Hardys.

"You're Steinway, aren't you?" Joe asked through clenched teeth at the man holding him.

"Let my brother go!" Frank yelled at the same time.

"How do you two know my name?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes at Frank. "Ah, you must Hardy's sons," he answered himself quickly. A grim smile crossed his face – a look that Frank didn't like at all. He ventured to take a step forward, wishing desperately that Steinway would take the knife away from Joe's throat.

"Hold it there, Hardy, or your brother dies!" Steinway yelled, tightening his grip on Joe. Joe grimaced in pain silently as the knife was dug harder into his neck. Frank froze immediately, terrified that the man would carry out his threat.

"Come on, Steinway," Frank said, giving his best impression of being calm. "You're not in it that deep yet." On a burst of inspiration, he added, "We already called the police from the cab. They're coming right behind us. So why don't you just let him go now?"

"Forget it," Steinway snarled. "If the police really are going to be here any minute, then you boys are my ticket out of here. I'll be damned if I'm going to jail!"

"You don't need both of us," Frank pointed out rationally. "Let Joe go, and I'll come."

Joe didn't dare speak or shake his head with the knife pressing in on his throat, but the flash in his eyes let Frank know exactly how he felt about that particular idea. It didn't matter; neither of the two really expected Steinway to go for the plan, but Frank had to try. Besides, they both knew Joe would have done the same.

The embezzler showed no signs of relinquishing his hold on Joe, however, so Frank cautiously started to move forward again.

"Hold it!" Steinway yelled, yanking himself and Joe backwards. The sudden movement caused the knife to slip, nicking Joe's throat and leaving a thin trail of blood. Frank winced as Joe gasped in pain, but he continued to move forward, holding his hands out placatingly and trying anxiously to think of what his father would do if he were in Frank's position.

"Come on, be smart about this," he urged Steinway. "Embezzling's a light term compared to kidnapping. Just let him go!"

For an instant, he thought Steinway was about to listen to him. He saw as the criminal's eyes flick swiftly from him to the door, then back down at Joe. A moment of hesitation stopped Steinway in his tracks.

A moment was all Joe needed.

Letting go of Steinway, Joe jerked his free arm forward, then sent his elbow slamming back into Steinway's gut. His captor doubled over, taken off guard by the sudden attack, which gave Joe enough time to slip out from his grip.

"Run, Joey!" Frank yelled, dashing forward to help. With an angry bellow, Steinway straightened back up and grabbed hold of Joe again before he could move away. As he saw Frank running towards him though, he threw the younger boy away from him to meet Frank's attack.

Frank didn't stop to see what had happened to Joe. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his younger brother had hit a stack of crates which came tumbling down in a heap. He heard a cry of pain and knew that Joe had been hit by one of the heavy wooden crates, but there was nothing he could do to help as he and Steinway collided, wrestling for possession of the knife.

From the floor of the storage garage, Joe watched fearfully as Frank and the criminal grappled with each other, each trying to turn the knife on the other. He grunted and tried to pull himself up, determined to help, but he was pinned down by a box that had fallen onto his leg.

"Frank," he whispered, too scared to even find his voice. The flashing knife filled his vision, and he had a horrible mental image of the blade piercing his brother and taking Frank away from him.

Frank smiled grimly. It was obvious that Steinway was unused to using weapons. He was bigger, heavier, and much stronger than the teenager, but he was an accountant, not a fighter; he didn't have a clue what he was doing, and Frank did. Another flash, a yell, and a grunt of pain… Joe watched as Frank backed away, the knife now in his hand and a thin red line of blood trickling from a cut on Steinway's face.

Steinway roared in anger and charged at the young Hardy like a crazed rhinoceros. Frank's eyes opened wide in shock as he saw the enraged man flying towards him. In the heat of the moment, Frank's brain shut down to allow his reflexes to take over.

Deftly swinging his arm out and up to meet his adversary, Frank let out a yell and plunged the knife deep into Steinway's heart.

Time seemed to slow down. Steinway's eyes met Frank's, changing swiftly from anger to confusion, and, finally, to emptiness as the life flew from his body. His dead weight fell onto Frank and both of them crashed to the ground.

"Frank!" Joe yelled. "Frank!"

With an enormous effort, Frank managed to roll Steinway off of him and stumble back from him. There was no need; Steinway wouldn't be coming after either of them anymore. Frank could only stare, shocked and terrified, at the bloody knife that was protruding from Steinway's heart. He glanced down at his own hands and noticed that they were completely soaked in the petty criminal's blood.

"No!" he yelled, as the full realization set in. Forgetting that his brother still needed help, forgetting about everything else, Frank crawled back to Steinway's side and pressed his hands against the wound, trying to stem the blood that seeped forth. The warm, sticky blood gushed over his hands, coating them in a thick layer of bright red. This wasn't what he had wanted. He hadn't meant to kill the man.

"Frank!" Joe yelled again. "Frank, he's gone! There's nothing you can do!" When he saw that his brother was in no state to understand what he was saying, much less do anything to help, Joe turned his attention instead towards getting himself out.

Heaving against the heavy crate with all his strength, Joe managed to lift it high enough to slide himself out from under it. He tried to stand, but the box had smashed his leg into the floor, and he couldn't place any weight on it without it buckling beneath him. Crawling painfully over to Frank and Steinway, Joe tried to get his brother's attention.

"Frank, look at me!" the young boy cried. "Frank!" Joe tugged on his older brother's shoulder, but Frank never looked up from Steinway's dead body. "Frank!" Joe yelled, feeling himself growing more and more hysterical. The twelve year old didn't dare look at the dead body or he knew he would lose control.

Frank ignored him, keeping his hands pressed against the gaping hole in Steinway's chest. The blade had obviously severed a major blood vessel because the blood continued to spurt bright red liquid and his arms were now covered practically up to his elbows. And then, just as suddenly, there was no more. Frank noticed the change in pressure almost instinctively, and that was when he gave up.

Sitting back on the floor, Frank stared at the dead body – the body of the man he had _killed_ – and started shaking, his breathing ragged and uneven. He rocked back and forth, finally managing to tear his gaze away from the corpse to look instead at his hands.

"F-Frank! Wh-why won't you help me?" little Joey cried, scared nearly out of his mind.

But for the first time in his life, Frank had managed to tune out the sound of his brother's voice completely. He could only sit, rocking back and forth and staring at his bloody hands with wide, brown eyes. He didn't even notice as Joe dragged himself to the other side of the body and dug through Steinway's pockets until he pulled out a cell phone.

With trembling fingers, Joe dialed his father's number, still trying not to look at Steinway's corpse. There was no more stopping the tears that coursed down his face. Joe had never been this scared before, not even when Steinway was holding a knife to his throat. He had Frank then, but it was Frank who was scaring him now. He had never seen his brother like this... and there was so much blood… Joe couldn't handle this.

"Hello?"

Joe nearly jumped as he heard his father's voice, filled with tension and worry. He couldn't stop himself from crying in earnest now.

"Hello?" Fenton asked again, hearing the sobs and fearing the worst. "Who's there?"

"Dad?" Joe choked out.

"Joey!" Fenton gasped. "Oh my God, Joe! Where are you? Are you alright? Is Frank there? Joey, what's wrong?"

"D-dad…" Joe sobbed, staring at his brother who was still staring at his hands, rocking back and forth. "S-something's wrong wi-with Frank…"

* * *

_TBC_


	5. In Which Frank Doesn't Say Much

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Oh yes, and I don't own the Hardy Boys. Thanks for your reviews, folks! And now, on with the story..._

_Polaris_

* * *

The next few hours were like blurs in Frank's memory. He had no knowledge whatsoever of anything that had happened after they had entered the storage garage. The next thing he was aware of was waking up in a hospital bed, with Joe asleep in a bed next to him and his father dozing in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

"Frank?"

Frank jumped slightly and looked back at his family again. Joe had apparently only been closing his eyes, and had heard Frank move to announce his return to consciousness. Frank stared at his younger brother, who was watching him with wide, blue eyes, which were filled with hurt. Frank wondered what had happened to have caused so much pain.

"Frank, can you hear me?"

Frank nodded, thinking that it was a rather odd question for Joe to be asking. And why exactly was he in a hospital bed at all? He didn't _feel_ sick… he was about to ask Joe what was going on when he happened to glance down at his hands.

In a flash of horrifying reality, it all came back to him. Steinway… the embezzler… the man at the garage. He had threatened Joe. He had fought Frank. And he, Frank, had killed the man. He was a murderer.

Joe watched his brother, feeling lost and alone. He had hoped and prayed that when Frank woke up he would be back to normal. For a minute there, Joe had thought Frank _was_ back to normal, but in only an instant those brown eyes of his had regained the look of horror and Joe knew that Frank had just remembered everything.

* * *

"Excuse me, sir."

Fenton snapped back to consciousness as a hand was laid on his shoulder. The doctor who had entered the room jumped back slightly at Fenton's sudden movement. The P.I. sighed and rubbed his face, sitting up in the chair.

"Sir," the doctor continued, keeping his voice low so as not to wake his two young patients. "The police are here. They want to talk to your sons."

Fenton watched Frank and Joe as they slept. It had been the longest night of his life, by far. He had taken one of Juarez's cars and was half way to the police station downtown – the instincts that Joe had inherited from him had warned him something was terribly wrong – when Joe had called.

Fenton could hear the fear in little Joey's voice even over the phone, and refused to hang up even long enough to call an ambulance. Instead, he had stayed on the phone with Joe until he got there. Fenton shuddered as he remembered walking through the doors… his heart had nearly stopped when he saw all the blood, until Joe convinced him that they were both fine and none of it belonged to them. Nevertheless, Fenton had carried Joe out to the car, then guided Frank out to the front seat and driven them straight to the hospital.

It wasn't until after he had checked both of them in and seen to it that a doctor was coming to look at them when he made the obligatory phone calls. First, he had called the police to send some men over to the garage to collect the body. Second, he had called Juarez to let him know that he wouldn't have any more trouble with money going missing. Third, and hardest of all, was calling Laura. Fenton prayed he would never have to make a call like that again. He could still hear her voice echoing in his mind...

"_Laura, something's happened."_

"_What is it? Are you boys alright? What's going on?"_

"_Laura… I swear, I was only gone for half an hour…"_

"_WHAT'S GOING ON?"_

"…_Frank and Joe… they went out on their own… they found the suspect. Laura, he attacked them. Joey hurt his ankle, but he'll be alright. But Frank… he had to protect them both. Frank killed him, Laura."_

"……"

"_Laura?"_

"_You were supposed to protect them.__"_

"_Laura, I…"_

"_How could you let them out of your sight, Fenton?"_

"_Laura…"_

"_How could you?"_

"_Laura…"_

"_MY BABIES, FENTON! HOW COULD YOU?"_

Fenton was not known for lacking in toughness, but he was easily broken by the anguish in his wife's voice. The accusing words tore through him, but he knew in some small way – or perhaps not so small – he deserved them. It was all he had been able to do to keep her from boarding the very next flight to Atlanta, persuading her that they would be leaving soon and there was nothing she could do.

"How are they doing?" Fenton now asked the doctor in a strained voice. "Will we be able to leave when the police are through?"

"Joe's ankle is sprained," the doctor explained calmly. "He'll be fine as long as he stays off of it for a while. Frank…" The doctor paused, not sure how to proceed. "We washed all the blood away, and it doesn't look like any of it was his. There doesn't seem to be any physical damage to Frank, but I'd strongly recommend that you take him to see a therapist. There's really no reason for them to stay though, so you're free to take them home as soon as the police are finished talking to them."

Fenton nodded and looked back at Frank. To his surprise, he was awake, apparently listening in but not saying anything. Fenton hated to do this to Frank, especially as soon as he had woken up, but it had to be done.

"Frank?" Fenton said gently, reaching for his son. He stopped short as Frank pulled away. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Fenton stayed where he was, but tried again. "Frank, the police want to ask you and Joe some questions, ok?"

Frank looked away and shrugged in silent apathy. In the bed next to him, Joe stirred and opened his eyes.

"Dad?" he whispered, looking around anxiously. Fenton hurried over to him.

"I'm here, son," he answered, brushing Joe's hair off his face. "I'm glad you're awake, Joey. Do you feel up to talking to some officers?"

"Do we have to?" Joe asked quietly, wishing his voice would stop trembling. Living with a detective for a father, both he and Frank knew how the process worked. Joe had known they would have to talk to the police eventually, but he really didn't feel like reliving that whole experience.

"Yes, son. I'm sorry," Fenton answered, and he meant it.

Joe bit his lip, looking pale, but he nodded. Frank didn't say a word, nor did he look up as the police chief and two officers came into the room and sat down next to the boys.

"Alright," groaned the chief, a grumpy, unpleasant looking man. "Let's just get this done with, shall we? Start at the beginning, boy."

Joe hesitated, intimidated by the chief's unfriendly attitude, and looked instinctively at his brother. When it appeared that Frank wasn't going to say anything, Joe haltingly started the story. He told them all about finding the pages of finances that had led them to the garage. He told them about taking a cab to the garage and finding Steinway. He told them about the fight and how Frank had killed Steinway, stressing the point that his brother was defending both of them.

Through the whole story, the chief wrote notes and nodded occasionally. When Joe was through talking, the chief looked up, as though surprised there wasn't more to the story. He sat regarding the Hardys without speaking, and when he did finally start his questions, they seemed rather out of place – and completely unhelpful – to Fenton.

"What was in the crates?"

"W-what?" Joe stuttered, taken off guard by the odd question. "I-I don't know. It didn't really seem to matter…"

"Oh, it didn't seem to _matter_. Fine then, was there any indication of what Steinway might have been doing there?"

"I don't…I don't know…"

"Come on, son," the chief sighed. "Can't you do any better than that?"

Fenton stood up in anger, placing a hand on Joe's shoulder defensively as his youngest son hung his head in shame. The police chief ignored the gesture and turned instead to Frank, who was still sitting motionless and staring intently at his hands.

"Well, this was a waste of time," the chief said, shaking his head derogatorily. "You know, boy, it would be a whole lot more helpful if you'd actually _say_ something."

Fenton had had enough. Grabbing the chief by the front of his jacket, the private investigator pulled him in close.

"He's only thirteen years old," Fenton snarled. The chief tried to back away, looking shocked, but Fenton held him tight. "He's just a boy, and he took a life. I'd be more concerned if he _was _feeling fine! He's obviously not ready to talk, so I suggest you _back off!_"

The chief pulled himself out of Fenton's grip, glaring at him. "Look, Hardy, I realize you're upset, but that's no reason to-"

"Upset?" Fenton demanded. "Of course I'm upset. That man threatened my sons. I want to know what you're going to _do_ about it."

"I'm closing the case," the chief answered shortly, motioning for his men to leave. Fenton watched them go, a fire in his eyes.

"Closing the case?" he repeated, not believing his ears.

"The garage was blown to bits shortly after you left, Hardy," the chief informed the stunned investigator. "There's no case _left_. As for Steinway…" he smiled ironically as he stopped in the doorway. "I'm sorry he hurt your sons, Hardy, but what do you _want_ me to do about it? Arrest him?"

* * *

"We have a problem here, don't we?" Paulson said, his voice cold and unforgiving. The two henchmen didn't dare answer him, but exchanged uncomfortable glances. Their boss was in a killing kind of mood.

"We've lost everything, thanks to Steinway!" Paulson continued, slamming a fist down on his desk. "Everything – _all_ our assets – were in that storage warehouse. _How_ did they find it?"

Again, no one answered him. Paulson wasn't really expecting them to. He leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. They had been incredibly lucky. It had been one of his men inside the police department who had received the call from Hardy, and Paulson had been able to send a man to destroy the evidence before the other police got there.

A well-placed bomb had done the trick; there would be no concrete evidence against him. The Hardys, however…

"You two," Paulson snapped at the men in front of him. "Get yourself on a plane to New York. Hardy found us somehow. Without hard evidence, the cops might try and use Hardy and his boys as witnesses. Make sure that can't happen."

The two men nodded and swiftly left the room, relieved to be out of the mob boss's presence. Paulson pulled out his pistol and started polishing it again. He had no idea how Hardy could have stumbled on his operation, but there was no way Paulson was going to give up his empire that easily.

Of course, Paulson had no way of knowing that he would have been safer to let the Hardys go back to New York quietly. He had no way of knowing that, not only had they not _seen_ what was in the warehouse, but that they didn't even know who Paulson was.

What Paulson couldn't have known was that the Hardys had not been looking for a mob boss's stash, but had merely been trying to help a friend catch an embezzler who had stolen a few thousand dollars.

* * *

Fenton sat on the plane, wanting nothing else than to hold his son close to him, but he couldn't get near Frank without causing the boy to shrink back as far from him as he could. It broke Fenton's heart to see his own child avoiding his touch, and his soul bled with the pain. He had been concerned at first with how Frank would take to being in such a public place as an airport, but he needn't have worried. His son didn't seem to realize the rest of the world even existed. And still, Frank hadn't said a word. He had only sat there, his hands held in front of him as he contemplated them silently.

Frank sat staring down at his hands. He felt like his mind was under a shroud that he could barely see his way through. He knew now, from vaguely listening to Joe's account to the police, what had happened. He knew now that he had somehow shut down. Frank felt worse than ever. Killing a man was bad enough, but he had also ignored Joey as his brother had cried to him for help.

Frank knew he wasn't going to be punished for killing Steinway. At least, not by anyone on Earth. He wasn't worried about that. What _did_ concern him, however, was the fact that no one – not the doctors, the police, the airplane attendants, or even his father or Joe – had done anything to get rid of the pungent, red blood that was still coating his hands like evil gloves.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	6. In Which The Hardys Go Home

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry I didn't get to reply to all your reviews personally... I haven't been home in a couple days. But I'm back! So, in reply..._

_Anonymous Lila: Glad you like this so far! Sure hope I don't disappoint you, of course, and thanks for taking the time to leave a review!_

_Red Hardy: As always, thanks so much! I love your reviews! Yeah, that chief wasn't very friendly, was he? Your indignation at him was quite amusing though, thanks for making me laugh! And there's nothing whatsoever wrong in being a Joe-ette, LOL! _

_Vinsmouse: You're right, of course... I think Fenton would've had a LOT more to say - or do - if his kids hadn't been there, so that police chief is just darn lucky, LOL! Insensitive jerk is being quite polite!_

_HelenLouise: Heehee, chilling is what I'm going for, so thanks! Nope, DEFINITELY haven't heard the last from Paulson yet... he has a grudge big time! And yes, the Hardys would be the ones to end up with earth-shattering problems when they were out to accomplish something so doggone simple... :)_

_franknjoe: Glad you enjoyed the phone call! I wasn't sure how much actual conversation I wanted to have between them, but as Red pointed out, 'less is more'! I'm glad everyone hates my police chief so much, lol! You're right, he wasn't even slightly fit to be handling that particular case, but in this chapter you'll find out a little bit more about why he did. Not that he's being excused..._

_Miss Fenway: Thanks for reviewing! It IS sad, isn't it? It's breaking my heart already, and I'm afraid I'm only going to get meaner to my poor little Hardy boys. Although they ARE fun to hug... :)_

_angry penguin: Thanks for ALL the reviews! I usually try to respond to everyone personally, but like I said I haven't been home. I'm glad you stumbled in onto the story though, and I'm glad you like the emotions! I try and keep it realistic, though I must say I've not had a lot of experience in being thirteen and having just killed someone. Which is a good thing, of course! LOL_

_sleuth girl: Hey there, thanks for leaving me a review! I'm glad you like it! And now, here's a bit more!_

_Oh yeah, and disclaimer: I don't own the Hardys. _

* * *

Laura Hardy stared at the clock on the wall with red-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes. She had just gone to bed the night before, turning in at a relatively early eleven o'clock when the phone had rung.

After living with Fenton Hardy for as many years as Laura had, she knew that a phone call that late at night usually meant that something bad had happened. Fenton's voice on the line had only confirmed what she already knew to be true – _something_ had happened to her sons.

He had promised her they would be safe. He had promised he would watch out for them and nothing would happen. He had promised. It was now one in the afternoon, and Laura had just hung up on him again. Fenton had called to say they were on their way home and would be there that night. He had tried to go on to say that he was sorry, that he was so sorry, but Laura wasn't ready to talk to him just yet.

At first, Laura had been livid. How dare Fenton break his word to her? She had been so angry, she wasn't sure what was going to happen when he showed up at the door. Now that she had been given time – too much time, really – to cool off a bit, she wanted nothing more than to hear the car pulling into the drive, her babies home safe and sound, but they wouldn't be back for hours.

"Why did they have to grow up to be like their dad?" Laura whispered to herself. She had long since grown accustomed to the fear that resided in her heart every time her husband walked out the door, knowing that anything could happen. But to hold the same fear for her sons… she had known long ago that the day would come, but she had held out hope that it wouldn't be for years yet.

Laura spent a restless day, mostly pacing through the house and examining all her sons possessions and photographs with a renewed sense of love and protection. Continuously, she would walk past the window and just stare outside, willing her husband and sons to pull into the driveway and set her mind easier. By the time she was rewarded with their sight, however, darkness had fallen and the day was gone.

"Boys!" she cried, hurrying outside to meet the car. Fenton opened the door and stepped out, looking exhausted and old. Putting a finger to his lips, he gestured for Laura to keep her voice down and pointed in the backseat. Laura looked in the back and caught her breath.

Both Joe and Frank had fallen asleep, but it was not the peaceful, innocent sleep that she knew so well from watching over them. Both looked pale in the darkness of the twilight, and both were curled protectively around themselves, as if to keep the rest of the world away in their unconsciousness. Reaching inside gently, Laura picked Joey up from the backseat and carried him into the house, while Fenton took Frank in his strong arms and followed her.

Putting both the boys in their beds and tucking them in, Fenton stepped out into the living room to give his wife a chance to kiss them both on the head and make sure for herself that they were as uninjured as Fenton had promised. When she came out of Frank's room, Fenton stepped over to her, unsure what to say and how well he would be received.

"Laura…" Fenton started, his voice breaking. She looked up at him with those eyes of bluest blue, so similar to Joey's, and just like Joey's had, they mirrored confusion and pain. _Why_ had this happened, they cried… _why_ had this happened and _why_ didn't Fenton fix it?

"Laura, I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Laura nodded. Part of her wanted to shove him away and slam the door in his face, but she couldn't. To say that she had forgiven him would be a gross misinterpretation – forgiveness would be a long time in the coming – but in the meantime, Laura could clearly see that he had punished himself enough without her adding to it, and she needed him. They would need each other to get through this new trial, and so she pulled him close.

* * *

Back in Atlanta, the chief of police heaved himself out of his desk chair and began pacing his office, running a hand through his mane. His eyes were hooded with the exhaustion of staying up late at night, working tirelessly for a single purpose, and then having that purpose stolen away right under one's own nose.

Paulson's trail was gone. Chief Stalans was no stranger to disappointment, but this one nearly knocked him off his feet. He had been _so close_! Stalans had been chasing Paulson for years now. Everyone knew that Paulson was the mob boss, but no one had yet been able to prove it. Stalans had made Paulson his personal mission. He had followed him closely, made friends, closed deals, and bided his time, waiting on the opportunity to strike and shut down the dangerous man for good.

The chance had finally come. Chief Stalans had met one of Paulson's men in a dingy, downtown pub, and bought the man several drinks. There was nothing like a smoky atmosphere and the fiery alcoholic nectar to loosen a man's tongue. Stalans had finally extracted the location of one of Paulson's strongholds.

Then he had been oh so clever. Stalans wanted Paulson going down for good… he wanted Paulson's _entire _operation, not just a piece of it. Stalans knew there was a traitor on his force, but had left him in place for just such a purpose. He had made it widely known through the entire division that a raid was on the schedule. Word had gotten back to Paulson, but nobody knew _which _storehouse would be hit. Paulson had panicked, as Chief Stalans had anticipated, and moved all of them.

Into one location.

One central warehouse, with all the evidence Stalans would need to put Paulson away for life. And better yet, the chief knew exactly which one, having kept close tabs on Paulson's accountant, Steinway. Oh yes, he knew all about Steinway. If only that fool, Almonzo Juarez, hadn't kept coming to him! Steinway never let his guard down because Juarez kept going to the police about some trifling embezzlement deal! Chief Stalans had tried so hard to make sure Steinway knew that there would be no investigation, but the accountant refused to take risks. Stalans might have got to Paulson so much sooner if Juarez hadn't been in the way.

Nevertheless, he got there in the end. He was almost ready to make the sting… and then the building was blown to bits. Stalans had been forced to witness one of the most bitter events in any man's life – a purpose, coming crashing down. All his evidence was gone. Paulson's trail had grown cold. And then, the briefest glimmer of hope; there were witnesses. Hardy's boys had been there, it was just possible that they had seen something that would stand in court.

But no. Chief Stalans poured a shot of whiskey from a nearby cabinet and downed it in one gulp. He had nothing left, but he wasn't giving up. Not by a long shot. Paulson might have all of Atlanta to hide in, but Stalans would dog him to the end of his days.

* * *

Joe rolled over, awakened suddenly by some unseen force. He lay still for a moment, taking stock. He was in his own bed at home…he must have fallen asleep on the way back from the airport. What was wrong though? Something had woken him, and his curiosity demanded that he find out what.

Getting quickly and quietly out of bed, Joe grabbed the crutches leaning against the wall and headed towards the door. He made it as far as the doorway, but paused with his hand still on the knob, listening intently. It sounded like their was water running in the bathroom that he and Frank shared. Turning that direction instead, Joe knocked softly on the bathroom door.

"Frank?" he called, keeping his voice down so as not to wake his parents. "Frank, are you alright?"

Joe waited for a minute, but no answer was given. He pressed his ear to the door. There was definitely water running in the sink, but if it was Frank, he either hadn't heard the question or he simply refused to reply. Opening the door slowly, Joe peeked inside.

Inside, Frank was standing at the sink, the hot water tap twisted all the way around. The water coming out was so hot that clouds of steam were making their way up through the air, clouding the mirror. Frank's hands were thrust into the center of the stream of water, and he was using a bar of soap to scrub at his hands.

"Frank!" Joe gasped, throwing the door open the rest of the way. "What are you doing?" Limping inside, he reached to turn off the water but Frank shoved him away.

"Don't!" he said hoarsely.

"Frank, what-"

"Don't touch me!" Frank yelped as Joe tried again to pull his brother's hands out of the burning hot water. "I can't get it off!"

"Can't get what off?" Joe demanded. "Frank, _look_ at me!"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Frank turned to face him for the first time since waking up in the hospital. It took everything in Joe's will power to not back away in horror. Frank was obviously awake, but his eyes were as empty as those of the corpse they had left in Atlanta. There was no mischievous twinkle, no laughter that he had known so well, not even a look of fear… there was only emptiness, like a veil was now covering his eyes which refused to let anything through. He looked haunted, his face a blank nothing. It seemed to Joe that something inside his brother had died with Steinway, and nothing he did would ever bring it back.

"It won't come off, Joe," Frank whispered, holding his trembling hands out towards Joe. "I can't get it off."

"Can't get _what _off?" Joe repeated, nearly in tears. He tore his gaze away from his brother's face to examine his hands more closely. They looked horrible; beet red from the heat of the water, and pealing away in places from where Frank had scrubbed them so hard for God knew how long before Joe got there. But there didn't appear to be anything on them.

"The blood," Frank answered in that haunted sounding voice. "The blood doesn't come off, Joey. The blood doesn't ever go away."

"Oh God, Frank," Joe whispered, trying in futility to keep the tears from spilling from his eyes. He felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare… the image of Frank holding out empty hands which he claimed were still dripping blood was too surreal for the young boy to handle.

"What's going on?" Fenton's strong voice boomed from the other doorway. "Frank, Joe, what-" He stopped mid-question as his eyes swept from Frank's shaking hands, stretched towards Joe, to the hot water that was still running.

"Frank!" he gasped, hurrying towards his oldest son.

"Stay away from me!" Frank yelled, backing away. "Stay away, I don't want to get the blood on you!"

"Frank," Fenton said again, moving slowly to turn off the water. "Frank, listen to me, son. There is no blood, alright? There's no blood. It's all gone."

Frank turned his lifeless eyes to meet with his father's. He shook his head, his face deathly pale.

"No," he whispered. "It won't ever be gone." With that, Frank's eyes rolled back and he slumped forward, narrowly missing cracking his head on the sink as Joe and Fenton caught him and laid him down on the floor.

"Joe, get a towel and some bandages," Fenton commanded tersely, brushing Frank's hair back as he had when his sons were just little boys. It was almost a shame that Steinway was already dead, because at that moment, Fenton would have moved heaven and earth for the chance to kill the man himself.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	7. In Which Frank and Joe See the Doctor

__

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks reviewers and readers! Sorry, this chapter is a little slower, but everyone wanted Frank to get to a doctor. So here he is! I don't own them though. _

* * *

Joe sat at the edge of Frank's bed, trying not to cry as he watched his brother turn fitfully in his sleep. Frank had always been so… _alive_. Seeing him like this… Joe could barely stand it.

Few people truly understood the bond that the two brothers had. Most simply saw them as Frank being the 'older brother' and Joe the 'younger one', but their age was only a technicality. Joe had read somewhere once that twins often had a shared connection that allowed them to be much closer than ordinary siblings, to where they could practically read each others minds.

Joe remembered showing the article to Frank. They had both agreed right away – they weren't an 'older' brother and a 'younger' brother. They were actually twins. Laura had patiently explained to them that they couldn't be twins if they were born a year apart, but Frank had stubbornly maintained that he didn't remember there ever being a year without Joe. Laura had only smiled and said he would just have to trust her on that. After doing a bit of detective work (finding their birth certificates), and discovering that Frank really and truly _was_ a year older, they had decided they would be twins anyway.

In a way, Joe wished they really _were_ just a normal set of brothers, but they weren't. They were a team, they were partners. "Partners in crime", Fenton called them affectionately. Joe could have lived without an older brother. He could not live without his twin.

* * *

"Thank you, Dr. Richardson. Yes, we'll be there. Ok, bye." Fenton hung up the phone and turned to Laura, who was cooking breakfast in a desperate attempt to continue normally.

"Alright, hon. I got them an appointment for 10:00, ok? Dr. Richardson is one of the best… I'm sure he can help."

Laura nodded, keeping her long hair in front of her face so her husband wouldn't see the tears. Neither of them had gotten much sleep that night after Frank had brought to their attention just how much help he needed. From the sound of a pair of crutches thunking quietly down the hall, she was pretty sure that Joe hadn't slept much either.

"That's good. Why don't you go wake the boys… their eggs are almost done."

Fenton left and Laura hastily wiped the tears off her face. She had to be strong for her boys… all of them.

Bypassing Joe's room, Fenton went instead right to Frank's room. As he had suspected, both of his sons were curled up on Frank's bed. He hesitated, knowing that this was the most peace they were going to get. If he could have his way, they would sleep until everything was better again, but it wasn't his choice.

"Frank," he called softly, trying not to startle them too much. "Joe. Come on boys, it's time to get up."

For a minute, it seemed like they were transported back in time, back to before. Both Frank and Joe stirred and muttered something about wanting five more minutes, and Fenton almost laughed. Almost.

Any thought of laughter was driven out of his head when they all sat down at the table, however. Joey would only poke at his food, pushing it around his plate while he sat slumped over, miserably casting sidelong glances at his brother.

Frank wasn't even pretending to eat. Instead he sat in the chair, holding his hands carefully before him so as not to touch anything. The bandages that his father had put on his hands after the episode the night before were not enough to hold back the blood that seeped through and dripped down his hands. He didn't want blood getting on his mother's clean dishes.

"Boys," Laura started, not looking directly at them – she might lose her fortitude if she did. "We're going to see a man today. He wants to talk to you two. He'll be able to help… he's a doctor."

Frank did look up at this, but it wasn't at his parents, but somewhere in the area of Joe's shoulder. A doctor? That meant a shrink. He didn't want a shrink… they were for nutcases. Did his parents think he was a nutcase now because he had killed somebody? Did they think he needed to be _fixed_ before he tried to kill someone else? Frank stared hard at Joe's shoulder and decided maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe he _did _need fixing.

* * *

It was a silent trip to the psychiatrist's office. Frank was too busy keeping his hands off of his father's car and Joe was hoping that the doctor wouldn't be like the men who worked at the hospital. He and Frank had been to the hospital a couple times before, though only once as patients, and he didn't much care for the tall men in the white coats and masks. They used big words and usually brought bad news.

He needn't have worried though – the man who met them in the waiting room was nothing like the doctors Joe had ever met before. He was short and round with thick glasses and a kind smile. He didn't wear a white coat, although he did have a bright yellow bow tie that Joe snickered at as the doctor spoke to his parents.

"I'd like to take them one at a time," Dr. Richardson explained. He surveyed the two boys quickly and expertly before nodding at the younger blonde. "And I'd like to start with Joseph, if he doesn't mind."

"Go ahead, honey," Laura said with a smile, patting him on the back. "We'll be right out here, ok?"

"Frank, do you mind waiting until I'm done with your brother?"

Frank shrugged, shaking his head, and sat down on one of the waiting room chairs. He sank down into it, wiping at the bandages on his hands and ignoring the world while the doctor led Joe into his office.

"Can I call you Joey?" Dr. Richardson asked, smiling gently down at the young boy. Joe nodded, feeling somewhat shy. The doctor gestured to the seat across the table and pulled out a checkerboard.

"Do you know how to play checkers?" he asked, setting up the pieces. Again, Joe nodded, this time with a small smile on his young face. His grandfather had taught him and Frank both how to play, just before he died. Joe hadn't played in ages.

"I like checkers," Joe said quietly, watching as the doctor finished setting up the board and gestured for Joe to move first. "Me and Frank play sometimes."

"Frank's a good brother, isn't he?" Richardson chuckled. "You two must be really close."

Joe nodded, thankful that the game in front of him gave him an excuse not to meet the doctor's eyes. They sat in silence for a few minutes, focusing on the checker pieces, before Dr. Richardson started again.

"Do you want to talk about what happened to you and Frank, Joey?"

Joe felt tears come to his eyes and he hastily wiped them away. Did he want to talk? Yes, he wanted to talk. Joe jumped one of the doctor's checkers and began talking. And once he'd started, he didn't stop.

* * *

"Hello, Frank," Dr. Richardson said with a friendly smile. Frank didn't say anything, but stared down at his feet.

"Do you want to play checkers? Joey told me that the two of you play sometimes." Again, there was no answer.

"Frank, would you like to talk about what happened?"

This time there was a response, for what it was worth. Keeping his eyes down, Frank shook his head. Did he want to talk? No, he didn't want to talk. He wanted to wash his hands. He wanted the doctor to fix him. He wanted to take back what had happened and return Steinway to life, but he couldn't. No one could.

"Do you want to talk about Joe?"

Did he want to talk about Joe? No, he didn't want to talk about Joe. Frank shook his head.

"Do you want to talk about helping your father on his cases?"

No, he didn't. He didn't want to _talk _at all! Why couldn't this man understand that? He didn't want to talk to his parents and he didn't want to talk to his brother and he _certainly_ didn't want to talk to this stranger, this man he had never met, this shrink who was going to fix him because he was a nutcase. Frank shook his head.

"Your family is worried about you, you know."

Yes, he knew. They worried that he was a nutcase.

"Joey's worried about you."

Well, he should be. Frank had let him down. Frank had let him down... and then the tears were there, but Frank would never let them fall. He nodded.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about that?"

Frank nodded again. The doctor sighed. Until the young boy was ready to talk to him, there was very little he could do. They spent the rest of the session in semi-silence; Dr. Richardson set up the checkers board and talked about his days growing up, while Frank sat still without speaking. He couldn't play without getting blood on the doctor's checker pieces. The psychiatrist had not gotten to where he was for nothing, though... his easy-going manner and light conversation set Frank at ease enough that by the time they were finished, Frank would at least look up when he nodded or shook his head, and even managed something close to a smile once. Just once.

* * *

"Mr. and Mrs. Hardy?"

Fenton and Laura jumped to their feet as Dr. Richardson emerged from his office with Frank in tow. Frank walked right by them and went to go sit down next to Joey in the waiting room, still not talking.

"How are they?" Fenton asked quietly.

"Joseph was quite open to talking," Dr. Richardson said with a smile. "I think he's going to be just fine… many children in similar positions would take much longer to heal, but since he's so ready and willing to talk about it, I believe he should get through this admirably."

"Thank heavens," Laura sighed, squeezing Fenton's hand.

"I'll still want to see him regularly for a while," the doctor added. "Just to be sure that his progress stays on track. Frank, on the other hand…" Dr. Richardson trailed off.

"What about Frank?" Fenton demanded, fearing the worst.

Dr. Richardson hesitated before he continued. "He hasn't said anything. I can only make speculations based on what you've already told me. I would say that Frank is feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt over that man's death… guilt can be expressed in many different ways, some more harmful than others. For Frank, the guilt has taken the form of blood that he believes is still on his hands."

Fenton closed his eyes, feeling a surge of anger and guilt that this had happened to his son. If only he had done a better job protecting them… the guilt that _he_ felt was so strong, Fenton was almost surprised that he wasn't seeing ghostly, dripping blood as well.

"I'd advise you to bring both of them back tomorrow," Dr. Richardson continued. "In fact, I think for boys so young, daily sessions would be best, as opposed to weekly." Again, the doctor hesitated. "And I think perhaps we should try having them both in at the same time at least once. At least a small part of the conflict has to do with each other. It'll have to be dealt with before Frank can start healing."

* * *

"Come on Bruce, let's just pop the kids and the old man and get home," the taller of the men said, staring around him in contempt. "I hate New York."

The other man, Bruce, wasn't listening, but talking in a low voice to Paulson on his cell phone. He listened carefully, nodding his approval at the instructions, before hanging up the phone and turning to his partner.

"It ain't that simple, Derek," he muttered, keeping his voice down. "The boss wants to make sure that they ain't talked to anyone else about what they seen. Hardy had all kinds of time to call everyone in the New York police department… we gotta make sure we tie up _all_ the loose ends."

Derek heaved a sigh. He really _did _hate New York. "Fine, what's the plan?"

"First," Bruce answered, looking thoughtful. "First we're just gonna do a bit of surveillin'… make sure they ain't talkin' to the cops. If they are, we'll have to find out who, an' how much they've said. If they ain't… we'll take care of 'em right away an' head home."

"Sounds good to me," Derek said, smiling wolfishly. "Let's go hunt some Hardys."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	8. In Which Frank Takes a Step

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks as always! This chapter's a smidge shorter... sorry! Hope you enjoy it anyways!_

* * *

The Hardys had only been home for about an hour when the doorbell rang. Moving rather slower than usual, Fenton opened the door to reveal the concerned face of Con Riley, a man on the Bayport police force who had been friends with the Hardys for years.

"Fenton," Con said, walking quickly through the door as the detective stepped back to let him in. "I just heard what happened. God, I'm so sorry!"

"Thanks, Con," Fenton said heavily. "How did you find out about it?"

"Please, Fenton. You know we never reveal our sources," Con said, cracking a lopsided, half-hearted grin. "But really… I'm so sorry. How're Frank and Joe?"

"Not so good," Fenton answered with glum honesty. "We took them to see Dr. Richardson in town today though, he thinks he can help."

Con nodded encouragingly. "Oh yeah, I've heard of him. He's supposed to be really good at his job… I'm sure if anyone can fix things, he can."

Meanwhile, Joe was trying to do some fixing of his own.

"Frank, do you wanna go see a movie with Chet and Biff or something?" he asked, thinking perhaps seeing his friends would put Frank in a happier mood. Besides, it was a perfectly normal, spring-break kind of thing to do. Maybe if they pretended hard enough that the first half of spring break simply hadn't happened, Frank would get better.

Frank shook his head, not meeting his brother's eye. He was grateful for the offer, though it never occurred to him to tell Joe that. He knew he had disappointed Joe – was _still_ disappointing Joe – but he just didn't feel like doing anything. Besides… he held up his hands in explanation, and Joe needed no translation.

"_Stop it_, Frank! There's no blood there!" Joe hissed, not wanting to raise his voice and have his parents come running. "There's _nothing_ there! Just _stop it_ already!"

Frank frowned sullenly and turned away from his brother. Joe sighed… he hadn't meant to get angry, but Frank was scaring him and he didn't like it. But he hadn't meant to make his brother feel bad. He reached out to touch Frank's shoulder as his brother walked away, wanting him to stay, but he changed his mind. If Frank was going to be difficult, than Joe could be, too. Turning around, Joe saw his father and Con standing there and jumped, startled.

"Oh, hi…" he said. "Sorry… I didn't know you were there."

"That's ok, Joey," Con said, putting on a smile and pretending he didn't notice the shining dampness in Joe's eyes. "I heard you guys were back in town, just thought I'd drop in and say hi." He turned to Fenton, who was staring at the door Frank had just left through sadly. "Fenton, I have to get going… let me know if there's anything I can do, alright?"

"Of course," Fenton said, also smiling artificially. "And thanks again, Con. It means a lot to me that you came by. Here, I'll walk you to the door."

* * *

"Alright, the Hardys live just down this road here…" Derek trailed off as he and Bruce stared down the street. Sitting outside the house was a marked police cruiser, and walking out of a large, pleasant looking house was an officer in deep conversation with none other than Fenton Hardy.

"Damn it!" Bruce swore angrily, punching the dashboard. "He's already gone to the cops!"

"Yeah, but what the hell are they gonna do?" Derek pointed out. "His small-town fuzz doesn't have any jurisdiction in Atlanta. It doesn't mean anything!"

"Use your head!" Bruce snapped back. "Hardy's got connections everywhere. That there New York cop's probably just there to help him investigate. Next thing you know, he's chattin' up the Atlanta chief, or worse… the FBI! That cop right there just proves that we were right, Hardy ain't droppin' the case!"

"You're right," Derek sighed. "What do we do now?"

"I tell ya what we _ain't_ gonna do," Bruce said. "We ain't gonna lose our cool, and we ain't gonna rush in there. The boss said to do this right, an' that's what we're gonna do. We can't do nothin' to Hardy until we find out how much they know an' who they've told. So we're gonna camp out right here and watch him."

Derek nodded and the two settled in for what would prove to be a long, fruitless stake-out. Never in a million years did it occur to either of them that maybe… just maybe… the "fuzz" had been there to show his support to a troubled friend, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with an important mob boss who was thousands of miles away.

* * *

That night, Frank stood in front of the bathroom sink, examining himself in the mirror. He could see why everyone in his family was so worried about him; he _did_ look like a mess. His face was still far too pale, his eyes blank and haunted. He hadn't eaten in two days. And that was besides the blood that still coated his hands.

Frank was quite smart for his age, and he caught on fast. He knew no one else, for whatever reason, could see the blood. They didn't even realize it was there. Joe and his father both told him there was nothing on his hands, and they wouldn't lie… they must really not see it.

Frank didn't know why, and he didn't know how, but he was smart enough to know that it was never good to see things that nobody else could see. He had hoped that maybe, just maybe, if he ignored the blood he could fix himself. Maybe it would disappear on its own, since it was apparently only in his mind.

But it hadn't. Frank had dared to put his hand on Joe that first night, pushing him away by instinct. Some of that blood had dripped onto Joe's shoulder. No one else saw it, but Frank did. Every time he looked at Joe now, he could see the tiny bit of blood on him. No one else realized why Frank was so horrified at what he had done. Everything he touched turned red with the blood from his hands.

Maybe the blood was something that only murderers and God could see. Frank refused to lay his hands on any person ever again. If the red liquid was what marked him as a killer, he didn't want anyone else to be marked by mistake. It was a perfectly logical solution in his thirteen year old mind.

Sighing quietly, Frank turned the hot water tap and silently began to wash his hands. The tap and the sink were already stained bright red from where he had continuously tried to wash the blood off, but again, no one else could see it but him. Scrubbing quietly so as not to wake his family and have them come running, Frank finally managed to get a layer to go away completely. The top layer, the wet, fresh blood, could be washed clean, leaving only the stained dark red layer over his skin.

When he had scrubbed away as much as he could, Frank turned the water off and smiled to himself in satisfaction. A red stain he could deal with; at least then he could seek comfort and human touch without worry of spreading his guilt to them. Holding his breath and closing his eyes, Frank counted to ten before looking down at his hands.

Stricken, Frank sank down to the floor, holding his hands out in front of him. It was as though he had never washed them at all. Tears that he would not allow to fall clouded his tortured eyes as he stared at the blood that still dripped freely as ever, though there were no wounds on his hands. It appeared that he would never be free of what he had done. God must be punishing him for the murder he had committed.

* * *

"Ok boys," Dr. Richardson said the next day, looking back and forth between Joe and Frank. "We're going to try something different today, alright?"

Two pairs of eyes looked back at him. Wide open eyes that should have held that measure of innocence for so many years yet. Eyes that no longer reflected innocence, but that showed clearly they had seen the darker side of life.

"I want you to tell each other how you feel," he continued, yearning to restore the innocence lost. "You're brothers… you need each other. You need to be completely open and honest with each other. Joey, why don't you start? Tell Frank what you told me yesterday."

The wide blue eyes blinked once, then turned slowly to Frank. His brother could not – or would not – meet his eyes, but at least he wasn't staring at his hands. This fact gave Joe enough courage to whisper the question he had wanted to ask since they were at the warehouse.

"Why didn't you help me, Frank?"

Frank couldn't look at him. He didn't want to hear this. Not now.

"You scared me, Frank! You're still scaring me! There's no blood, and I _hate_ it when you act like there is, cause there _isn't_!"

Frank focused on Joe's shoulder, the one he had laid a hand on. Even though Joe was wearing different clothes now than he had been that night, Frank could still see the outline of a blood-red handprint that stood in stark contradiction to what his brother was saying.

"I called for you to _help_ me, and you _didn't_!" Joe said, tears dropping as he got more and more upset. Dr. Richardson almost considered putting a stop to it, but decided it had to be done.

Frank couldn't listen to this. He stared hard at that spot on Joe's shoulder, unconsciously starting to rock back and forth again. He couldn't listen to this. He couldn't listen to this. He couldn't hear the condemnation from his own brother, because if he didn't have Joe then he didn't have anything.

"You _didn't_ help me, Frank. You _left_ me there with that body! _You_ left, Frank! You've gone somewhere, you're… you're sitting there, but… but _you_ aren't in there! I want you back, Frank! I can't _do_ this on my own!" Joey lowered his head, mumbling in the direction of his feet. "I miss my brother, Frank. I miss my twin."

Dr. Richardson raised his eyebrows at the words, but didn't interfere. He didn't know why Joe had called Frank that, but it seemed to have a desired effect. For an instant, Frank stopped the rocking and staring and actually looked up at Joe. For an instant, his dark eyes cleared and something closely resembling hope returned to them, even if it was fleeting. For an instant, he was Frank again, if only for an instant. By the time Joe looked up, the older boy had already looked away, the darkness returned to his ever-staring eyes.

"Frank," Dr. Richardson said gently, greatly encouraged by the change he had just seen in Frank. "Is there anything you want Joey to know?"

Frank nodded and closed his eyes, because the tears were there – the tears that would never fall. He wouldn't let them. He couldn't. He didn't cry, but finally he spoke.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	9. In Which Brief Hope Yields to Calamity

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Also, thanks to reviewers, especially Cheryl and HelenLouise because I didn't get to respond to either of your reviews. But, consider yourself thanked! I don't own the Hardys. Enjoy!_

* * *

Dr. Richardson considered this to be one of the most successful sessions of his career. The single sentence that Frank had uttered – "I'm sorry." – was the key to unlocking his heart. He still wouldn't do much more than nod or shake his head, or else stick to two word phrases, and he wouldn't talk to the doctor at all. But Joe was another story.

_"I'm sorry, too. If I hadn't let Steinway get a hold of me…"_

_A vigorous shake of the head. It wasn't Joe's fault._

"_If I hadn't suggested we go… if we had waited for Dad…"_

"_I agreed."_

"_It's my fault. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have had to fight him to begin with."_

"_Not your fault."_

"_Not yours, either!"_

_A pause, then a nod. He only pretended to agree for Joe's sake, but it was another step. Baby steps, that's all it was. One step at a time. _

Dr. Richardson had emerged from the office beaming, excited to give the Hardys the good news… Frank was talking.

* * *

That night, Joe had just managed to fall asleep when he was awakened by someone calling his name softly. Sitting up quickly, Joe was surprised to see that it was Frank who had woken him up.

"What's the matter?" Joe whispered at his brother as he came in and sat down on the bed next to him. He supposed this must be progress. First, Frank had talked to him at the doctor's office. Then, they had finally gotten him to eat something. Nothing solid, as he still refused to touch the silverware or dishes, but he had finally let Joey convince him to have a milkshake through a straw. Now it seemed like _he_ was seeking out _Joe_ for a talk.

"Joe…" Frank said slowly. They had gotten on perfectly well after their talk with the doctor, but he was still hesitant to ask for help from the brother he had let down so horribly. "Joe, will you help me?"

Joe looked up, hope shining in his clear blue eyes. "Of course I'll help you, Frank!" he said excitedly. "That's what I've been trying to do! What do you need?"

"I…" Again, Frank hesitated. "I have to look something up… I need you to hack into the Atlanta police network."

"You… what?" Joe frowned, too confused even to notice that Frank had just uttered a longer sentence than he had since the warehouse. Of all the requests Joe had considered as possibilities, this had not been on the list at all. Frank had woke him up for that? "Why?"

"I need to look up… to look up Steinway," Frank answered, lowering his head. "I need to know about him. I need to know _him_. Please… please, Joe."

"You know I'll help…" Joe promised quietly. "But… but I don't think it's going to do much good…"

"It _will_. I'd do it myself, but…" Frank trailed off, holding up his clean, unblemished hands. Joe took in a deep breath, willing himself not to blow up at Frank – not when he was finally coming back – and nodded. He pushed back the covers and reached for his crutches when the full concept of the idea hit the younger Hardy suddenly.

"Woah, hold on a second!" he exclaimed. "Frank, how the heck are we supposed to hack into the Atlanta police network? Neither one of us has any idea how!"

"Um… actually… _I_ do," Frank said guiltily. "Phil's uncle works for the police, and Phil learned how to get into Bayport's system last year, and he taught me. But it should be the same principle for Atlanta."

"_What_?" Joe demanded. He glared at Frank. "You could do that for all this time, and you _never_ _taught_ _me_? I can't believe you! That was a dirty, low-down, stupid-headed thing for you to do, Frank!"

Frank shook his head. Of course, Joe wouldn't be mad because Frank had made mention of the invisible blood, or that he had asked him to do something _completely _illegal, but because Frank had never taught him how before. There was something so… _right_… about that, it almost gave Frank hope.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely. "I really am. But I'll teach you now! Ok? Please, Joey?"

"Fine," Joe snapped.

"Thank you," Frank said, feeling a rush of gratitude to the brother he had neglected. "And, um… can we keep this between us maybe?"

Joe glared at him, still annoyed, but he couldn't refuse his brother and they both knew it. After a minute, he finally cracked a smile and the two boys tiptoed (or hobbled) quietly out of the room and down the hall to their father's study, where the computer was. Only the past experience of being caught by their father kept Joe from laughing out loud – it felt so _good_ to be sneaking around getting in trouble with Frank again!

* * *

Parked in the car across the street, Derek and Bruce, the thugs from Atlanta, were losing patience. They had woken up, cramped and sore, to find that the Hardys had already left for their daily session at the psychiatrist's office.

"This is ridiculous!" Derek complained to Bruce, not for the first time. "We've been sitting here watching the house for two nights. Nothing's happened! What makes you so sure Hardy's still on the case?"

"You've read about him too, ain't you?" Bruce demanded. "You know his reputation, you know how good he is. And then his sons got involved… you really think he'd just let this _go_? I'm tellin' you, he's on the case."

"Yeah, well we still don't know that for sure! And how's watching the house going to tell us anyways?"

"I'll show you," Bruce said with a smile. "Follow me. We're goin' in."

Checking up and down the street to make sure they were unobserved, the two strolled casually across the street to the Hardys front door. It was but the work of a moment for the two seasoned criminals to pick the locks and disable the alarm system, slipping inside and heading for the study.

"Keep an eye on the window," Bruce muttered, hurrying to Fenton's computer. Powering it up, he pulled a disc from his pocket, inserted it into the drive, and ran the program. With it, he would be able to see the last several pages that the computer had accessed and displayed, even those that had been deleted from the computer's memory. If Fenton was investigating them or Paulson, they would be able to know exactly how much he had discovered.

"Looking good," Derek said, pulling back the curtains and watching the street through the window blinds. "Just hurry it up."

Bruce nodded and flicked through the pages. Junk email, internet news sites, that morning's crossword, nothing interesting. Suddenly, a page caught his eye. Reading through the material swiftly, Bruce sat back in the chair, gesturing angrily at the screen.

"Shit! Still don't believe me? Fenton's looking us up on the police database now! Look, here's Steinway's page!"

"_What_?" Derek hurried over. "But… but that's a protected database! How did he even get in there?"

"That doesn't matter now, all that matters's that he _can_. Reckon what else he's figured out?"

"No time!" Derek warned, peeking out the window again. "Guess who just showed up?"

"But they just left!" Bruce hissed, frantically closing down the program and pulling out his disc. "How can the Hardys be home already?"

"Worse… it's the fuzz again. Let's go!"

Prudently heading for the back door, the two thugs slipped out, running behind the neighbor's yard and emerging back on the street much farther down. They watched in dismay as two uniformed policemen knocked on the Hardy's door before realizing it was unlocked and heading inside, glancing around suspiciously. Once they disappeared behind the door, the two made a break for the car parked across the street.

"Any more bright ideas?" Derek demanded as they drove off.

"Any more stupid questions?" Bruce countered. "Now you got your proof. He's on the case, and now there's more cops involved. We're puttin' a stop to this right here and now. Come on... we know where they are."

* * *

Dr. Richardson had good feelings today. Frank still hadn't said anything to him, but he had good feelings nevertheless. Technically, the hour was up, but the other Hardys had gone out to get Joey an ice cream – because Frank had got one the night before? – and since they weren't back yet, the doctor was taking the extra time to push Frank a little further. The checkerboard was set up as usual, although Frank wouldn't touch it. Still… Richardson had good feelings.

"Why do you think no one else sees any blood?"

No answer.

"I want to know your thoughts, Frank. Do you feel like talking about it yet?"

No answer.

"Where do you think the blood you see on your hands is coming from?"

"My soul."

Dr. Richardson was surprised, but he didn't allow his face to reveal this fact. It was a rather astonishing answer, besides the fact that it was astonishing to be getting an answer at all. This was another step, and the doctor nearly jumped for joy.

"Your soul?"

"My soul is bleeding. That's why no one else can see the blood… you can't see a soul, can you?"

The response nearly floored Dr. Richardson, but again he didn't show it. He did, however, make a note on the pad of paper. That was one of the most insightful notions he had _ever_ received from a patient, and he wanted to remember it.

"Would your soul have been better off letting that man kill you, or your _brother_?"

No answer.

"You did the right thing, Frank…"

"No, I _didn't_!" Frank yelled, swiping the checkerboard clear off the desk. Dr. Richardson stopped, looking at him in surprise and hope as checkers went flying across the room. Finally, an emotional response! His good feelings had been right, as usual!

"I _didn't_ do the right thing!" Frank yelled again, tears coming to his eyes but not falling. "I didn't_ have_ to kill him, don't you _get_ it? He didn't know how to fight… I could have stopped him _without_ killing him, but I _DIDN'T_!"

"You were fighting for your life, Frank…"

"No, I wasn't! Steinway wasn't a killer! Me and Joe hacked into the police database, we know about him!"

"You what?" Richardson wasn't sure whether he should be confused or impressed.

"We looked him up! Steinway was just a small time thief! He never killed anyone… he never even _hurt _anyone! He wasn't an evil man, he was just an embezzler… all he did was take some money and I… I killed him… It _wasn't_ right."

The doctor set his pen down and took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh.

"Frank… listen …"

Dr. Richardson never got any further. At that precise minute, the office door flew open with a bang, revealing two masked men. There was no time to react... the psychiatrist saw a gun, heard the loud echoing shot, and remembered nothing else.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *

_A/N: Muwahahaha... ahem. Sorry. Ok, I may be taking creative liberties with the program that Bruce had on the disc. I don't know much about computers, but work with me here. It's fiction._


	10. In Which the Bad Guys Seem to Be Winning

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks everyone, for the reviews! Thanks to everyone who is reading too, even if you aren't reviewing. I don't own the Hardys!_

_Polaris_

* * *

Frank gaped in open astonishment as Dr. Richardson jerked backwards in his chair across from Frank and fell to the ground. He spun and looked in horror at the two men who had now taken the masks off and had their guns trained on him.

"Come on, kid," the closer one said. "We're goin' on a trip."

Shaking his head and backing away, Frank tried to keep as much space between him and the bad men as possible. Slipping suddenly on something, Frank landed hard on the floor. To his horror, it was a pool of blood – very real and clearly visible – that had tripped him up, and it was coming from the psychiatrist who lay in a heap beside him. Yelping in fright, Frank scrambled away only to be picked up by the other man.

"Let's go!" the second man growled.

Momentarily forgetting his vow to keep his hands off other people, Frank squirmed and twisted violently, grabbing at the man who held him in a desperate attempt to get loose. He heard the man cussing at him, trying to get a better grip, but Frank was too panicked to settle down.

"_Do_ something about him, will you?" he complained at his partner after Frank managed to backhand him in the face. With a sigh, the first man strode over and slammed the butt of his gun down on the back of Frank's head. Gasping, Frank went rigid for a second before slumping down, unconscious.

"Damn kid," Derek muttered, rubbing his jaw where Frank's wild flailing had hit him.

"Puts up one helluva fight," Bruce agreed, picking Frank's limp form up from the floor. "Quick, let's get outta here 'fore his kin gets back."

"It would've been a lot easier to just kill them all at once!" Derek grumbled. "I thought we were just going to shoot the four of them and get out?"

"Yeah, well, they ain't here, are they?" Bruce snapped. "We're gonna have to improvise now. We'll just take the kid an' call Hardy up to come get 'im. Let's move."

Hoisting Frank over his shoulder, Bruce turned and stalked out of the room, with Derek following close behind. Paulson would be wanting an update soon… at least this time they had progress to report.

* * *

In Atlanta, Stalans was once again pacing his office downtown. The rest of the department was buzzing excitedly about their weekend plans, but Stalans was in no mood for jocularity. The loss of Paulson still gnawed at him, occupying his thoughts every waking moment, and some of those in which he was not awake. For the past five or six odd years, Paulson had been an objective; now he was an obsession.

Picking up the whiskey bottle from where it sat unhidden on his desk, Stalans took a fiery gulp straight from the bottle, not even bothering to find a glass. So close… so close… so close… the mantra pounded through his head. He took another swig, hoping to drown the words that consumed him. So close… so close…

"Sir?"

Stalans jumped at the voice, not having heard anyone knock on his door. It was a young officer, eyeing him with a mix of caution and confusion.

"What?" Stalans spat at him.

"Sir… the DA wants to talk to you…"

"Shit," Stalans muttered. He was in no mood for the bureaucratic bull that he knew he was in for. The District Attorney had never been a police officer, had never worked in the field, had never stared down the barrel of a gun pointed in his face. He didn't understand Stalans, and Stalans didn't understand him.

Stumbling to the door, Stalans was about to leave when the young officer cleared his throat and stared pointedly at the bottle the chief still held in his hand.

Heaving a world-weary sigh, the slightly inebriated police chief stomped back to his desk and thrust the bottle inside. As if he didn't have enough trouble coming from the DA… now he would smell of liquor as well. Pulling out a piece of gum and chomping down on it vengefully as if the gum itself had sinned against him, Stalans headed to meet with his boss.

* * *

"Fenton, someone's been in your house," Chief Collig said into the cell phone as Con Riley carefully dusted the doorknob for fingerprints. The Bayport city police chief had only that morning heard about Frank and Joe's misadventure from Con, and had headed over to the Hardy residence immediately... it was his duty, after all. They were rather disturbed to find that, although the Hardys didn't seem to be home, the door was unlocked.

Collig didn't like it. Fenton was far too careful to forget to lock his own house, no matter what kind of stress he was under. Something, he sensed, was amiss.

"What? Are you sure?" Fenton demanded from the other end of the line. He and his family were on the way back to Dr. Richardson's office to pick up Frank.

"As sure as I can be. The door was unlocked when we got here. We're checking for prints now, but there doesn't seem to be anything obvious missing. I thought you should know. Just be careful, you hear me?"

"Ok, Chief. I appreciate it… we'll be there soon."

Hanging up the phone, Fenton sped up slightly. Those razor-sharp detective nerves of his were running overtime… that same feeling he'd gotten in Atlanta was buzzing at him again, and he was concerned.

"Honey?" Laura prodded, reminding him of her presence. "Fenton, what's going on?"

"Chief's at the house," Fenton answered shortly, gripping the steering wheel and weaving around slower moving cars as his tension mounted. "Says someone's been inside. He said it didn't look like anything had been taken… but I can't imagine what anybody would want anyways. I'm not on a case right now! Let's just hurry and get Frank and go home."

"Take Ailor Gap Road then," Laura commanded. Her husband's tension was picked up and multiplied by her protective instincts to get to her child as fast as she could. "That'll get you there quicker."

"Ailor Gap is going out of the way," Fenton argued, sticking to the lane he was in. "I'll save time taking Millertown Pike the rest of the way down."

"Not at this time of day, you won't!" Laura said sharply. "It's lunch hour, Millertown's going to be jammed."

"Laura-"

"Fenton! _Take _Ailor Gap _NOW_!"

"_ALRIGHT_!" Cutting the wheel hard to the right to make the turn in time, Fenton tore down the back roads, feeling an unnecessary degree of urgency that he had to get to Frank.

"Mom, what's going on?"

Laura turned to see Joey's frightened face in the backseat. She smiled reassuringly at him, reaching out to pat his hand.

"Nothing, honey. We're just in a hurry. Did you like that ice cream?"

Joe nodded, not taking his eyes off his father, who's mouth was set in a firm line. Worry lines creased his face, and the rest of the trip was made in silence.

As they pulled into the lot outside the doctor's office, Fenton jumped out almost before the keys were out of the ignition. He hurried up the stairs, pulling open the door and bursting into the deserted waiting room, with his wife and youngest son coming in a second later.

"Something's wrong here…" Fenton swiftly pushed Laura and Joey behind him. "Something's not right."

"Fenton, be careful," Laura whispered, following close behind him. She had learned long ago not to disregard the gut instincts of her husband. If he felt something was not right, then by God, something was going to be wrong.

Knocking on the door of the office, Fenton slowly pushed his way into the room and glanced around. A room as small as it was, there was no way he could miss the crumpled form of Dr. Richardson.

"Laura, you two stay out there!" Fenton shouted, swiftly blocking the room with his body so his son wouldn't see. Laura pulled Joey close to her, her thoughts racing fearfully through her head and her heart pounding unrestrainedly. She had seen past her husband… she had seen the body of the doctor sprawled out on the floor. What if…

She couldn't even finish the thought. She couldn't finish the thought that Fenton would also stumble upon the body of their son.

Inside the office, Fenton was thinking much the same thing. It only took a quick, cursory glance around, however, to determine that Frank wasn't anywhere in the room. Fenton was torn… on the one hand, if Frank wasn't there, he might still be alive! On the other… where _was_ he? Who had done this? What were they still _going_ to do? Frank surely would have put up a fight… had they hurt him to make him come? The young boy had only just started making the beginnings of a recovery… would this new experience take all hope of that away?

A weak moan brought Fenton back to the present. Hurrying to Dr. Richardson's side, the detective checked for a pulse.

"Laura!" he yelled. "Laura, call an ambulance! Richardson's still alive!"

* * *

"What exactly are you trying to say?" Stalans roared at District Attorney Mark Epson. "Are you firing me?"

"No, John," the DA said with practiced patience. "I just think you need a vacation, that's all. I know how much getting Paulson meant to you-"

"Oh, you _do_, do you?" Stalans sneered.

"Look, John. I've gotten too many complaints about you. And from Fenton Hardy himself? John, do you know who that man _is_? And I mean, look at yourself! You need to go home and clean up. I'm suggesting you take a few days. Take a week. Hell, take a month if you want to, but find some way to deal with this other than being nasty to some traumatized kids and drinking in your office!"

"So you_ are_ firing me."

Mark Epson closed his eyes, wondering – not for the first time – why he put up with this man. Anyone who was a less effective police chief would have been gone so long ago…

"I _will_ be, if you don't shape up pretty fast, John. I'm serious: take some time off and _go home_!"

Swearing under his breath, Stalans spun around and stormed from the room. He would go, alright. He would go find Paulson. And when he did… he would silence that pesky voice in his head for good. So close… so close… so close…

* * *

When Frank regained consciousness, he didn't remember immediately what had happened. All he knew was that his head hurt, he couldn't move his arms, and this _wasn't_ his parents' car. It took hardly any time at all, however, for the memories to come back. The doctor's office! The psychiatrist! Those two men! His head hurt because one of them had hit him, he couldn't move his arms because they were tied behind him, and this was _their_ car… he was being kidnapped.

Tears came to Frank's eyes but didn't drip down. He was scared, for sure, but he also felt lower than he ever had before in his life. It was all his fault. Dr. Richardson… true, he had annoyed Frank by always pushing for him to _talk_, but he was still a nice man. Frank had never wanted him dead! It was all his fault… they had come for Frank. The doctor had merely been in the way. It was all his fault. Everywhere he went, bodies were left behind.

"Yes sir."

The voice startled Frank, and he turned his attention to the front seat. The man who had hit him was in the passenger seat, speaking to someone else on a cell phone. The other man was concentrating on driving, but he glanced at his partner occasionally, apparently concerned with how the conversation was going. When the driver turned halfway in his seat, Frank could see blood spattered across his face where Frank had managed to get in a hit, though he was fairly sure it was the type of blood that neither of the bad guys could see.

Sensing that he was being watched, the driver twisted around and Frank immediately closed his eyes, pretending to still be out. All the while, though, he was listening furiously.

"Yes sir," Bruce said solemnly. "Yes sir, we have one of Hardy's brats. We're going to offer Hardy a chance to trade, and find out what he knows and who he's told… then we'll kill them both."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *

_A/N: I hate to leave you guys hanging like this, but that's probably the last chapter I'll be able to post for a week or so. I'm moving back up to school, so I'm not going to have a whole lot of time for writing. But I'll be back, I promise! Leave those reviews, folks, it's all the bread and water a starving artist can ask for! :) _


	11. In Which Everyone Goes to New York

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Hey guys! I'm back! Sorry, it took a little longer than I expected to update, but in my defense the Internet was down in the dorms. They're brand new... but that means we're the first people to find out nothing works. But I'm back now and hopefully I'll be able to update relatively regularly._

_Also, to all the people who's stories I've been reading... sorry I haven't been able to review, because there hasn't been internet, but consider yourselves all complemented and I'll try and pick up the slack tomorrow._

_BM originally: Thanks for the review, and sorry I didn't get a chance to reply! You're right, there aren't enough stories where FRANK is the one kidnapped instead of JOE, lol. I thought it was high time Frank got into some trouble. Glad you like it!_

_I don't own the Hardys... if I did, I'd be well-off enough that I wouldn't have to be in this dorm room..._

* * *

"We're going to offer Hardy a chance to trade, and find out what he knows and who he's told… then we'll kill them both."

Frank tried hard to keep his fear at bay, but his heart was pounding furiously at the words. They were going to kill him. They were going to kill his father. What would happen to Joey, and his mom?

In Atlanta, Paulson was thinking along similar lines, though not with so much compassion.

"What about the other kid? And the wife? Don't forget them, too. And anyone else he's roped into this."

"We won't forget," Bruce assured him cautiously. "There's at least two cops here working with him, maybe more." He hesitated before continuing. Paulson was unpredictable at best, and he didn't want to anger the boss to say the least. "We could actually use another hand up here."

There was a dangerous silence on the phone, but the reply, when it came, was favorable.

"Get Hardy, then hold on to him. I'm on my way… this is one that I'm going to take care of myself."

* * *

Fenton paced the waiting room of the hospital fitfully. Laura and Joe sat in the chairs, watching him. He hadn't wanted them to be there at all… Joey didn't need this right now. Not when the child was already terrified that his brother – his best friend – might be dead. Waiting around in a hospital was one of the worst places for him to be, but Fenton refused to let them go home alone. He had already allowed his caution to lapse too many times lately. He would not make that mistake again.

"Fenton!"

The detective turned around as he heard someone call his name. The lines on his face disappeared slightly as he came face to face with none other than Sam Radley.

"Sam!" he said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank God you're here."

"Fenton, what's going on? Laura said on the phone to get here as soon as possible." Looking around at the other Hardys in the waiting room, Sam paled suddenly as he noticed the conspicuous absence of the oldest Hardy son. "Oh God, Frank's not hurt, is he?"

Fenton winced at the question. It was a perfectly natural thing for Sam to assume, given the fact that they were standing in the emergency waiting room of a hospital, but it hurt to think that his son may be hurting somewhere.

"It's a long story, Sam," he started slowly. "We don't know where Frank is at the moment…" Briefly, he explained the whole story, starting with the incident in Atlanta and finishing with the discovery of Dr. Richardson stretched out on the floor in a pool of blood in his own office. Sam listened with rapt attention, consciously forcing his emotions at bay so he could analyze the situation objectively.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked immediately after Fenton finished telling his story.

Fenton smiled gratefully. He had never doubted that Sam would be willing – even eager – to help. It was comforting to know that even in a world where men burst into a psychiatric office and shot a doctor before kidnapping a young boy, there were still people who could be counted on.

"What I really need is for you to take Laura and Joey," he explained. "I don't want them alone right now… look after them for me."

"What about you?" Sam asked, studying Fenton. "Shouldn't _you_ being doing that?"

"I'm going to find Frank," Fenton said stubbornly. "With any luck, Dr. Richardson saw something before they shot him."

"I could stay here and wait for him to wake up," Sam pointed out helpfully. "Why don't you go home with your family?"

"No, I need _you _to do it. And you're not taking them _home_. You're taking them somewhere safe." Fenton heaved a sigh. "They tracked us down to the doctor's office. There's no way Laura or Joey should be at the house, not until I figure out what's going on. I need them some place where no one can get to them. Do really expect _me_ to sit around hiding until the police find my son?"

"No," Sam admitted.

"Well, _that's_ why I need _you_ to do it for me," the detective snapped. Sam nodded, looking a little sheepish, and Fenton immediately felt bad for his outburst.

"Sorry," he muttered, massaging his temples. "I'm just… you know, it's all just…"

"It's alright," Sam smiled. "You don't have to explain, I understand. Don't worry, I'll find somewhere safe to keep low for a while."

"Thank you," Fenton said quietly. Sam nodded and turned back so the detective could have a minute to say goodbye to his family.

"Dad, I want to go with you," Joey whispered in Fenton's ear as his father bent over to give him a hug. "I wanna find Frank."

Fenton gave Joe's shoulder a comforting squeeze. His youngest son had not taken the situation very well, to say the least. As soon as he had figured out what had happened to the doctor and – more importantly – to Frank, Joe had started yelling a few very colorful and rather inventive insults at the absent kidnappers. Fenton hadn't been previously aware that his son even knew some of those words, but he didn't have the heart to punish Joe for his language when he heartily agreed with every nasty thing Joe had said.

"You have to stay with Sam and your mom," he said, giving Joe a serious look. "I'll take care of Frank, but you have to take care of your mother, ok? Can you do that for me, Joey?"

"Sure, Dad," Joe said vaguely, staring out the window and wondering where his brother was and if he was hurt. If anything happened to Frank…

Joe was so preoccupied with his concern for his brother that he missed the look his father had directed at him. Fenton eyed his son carefully. _Sure_, _Dad_… he had heard _that_ before! Giving Laura a brief hug and some whispered words of assurances, Fenton stepped over to Sam, lowering his voice.

"Look, Sam… keep a close eye especially on Joey. I don't want him getting hurt because he tried to run off to save Frank and forgot to look out for himself."

Sam nodded, but gave Fenton a pitying look. "And who's going to keep _you_ from doing that very same thing?" he muttered.

Fenton smiled but shook his head reassuringly. "I'll be careful."

"You'd better be," Sam sighed, motioning for Joey and Laura to follow him. "They're counting on you to stay safe, you know."

* * *

In the dirty, disreputable area of downtown Atlanta, Chief Stalans was on the prowl. The scum of the underworld knew the police chief by sight and reputation, and more than one had received the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance. Eager not to be on the receiving end of his wrath, men and women alike melted back into the shadows as his car passed them down the narrow streets.

Stalans knew they were there. He hated everyone in this part of town. The lowlifes of the earth… how he would like to arrest everyone in sight. But he had a more pressing matter at hand. Six years chasing after one man had not been wasted. Paulson himself was as elusive as Stalans's paycheck when the alimony payment was due, but he knew the habits and haunts of a dozen or so of the lesser soldiers in Paulson's little army. And he knew where to go now.

Stalans's mouth curled into a grim smile as he caught sight of the man he was looking for. Quite literally like a hunter stalking his prey, Stalans slowed the car down to a crawl and cruised silently behind the man. So intent was he on following the man, the police chief didn't even notice as the car behind him also slowed down, maintaining its carefully gauged distance.

Getting out of the car, Stalans stomped almost eagerly towards the man he was after. The trashy young lady the man was standing with caught sight of him and broke off mid-sentence to turn tail and dart towards the adjoining street, clacking away on her cheap stiletto heels. The man spun around angrily to see who had interrupted his night's entertainment, but stopped with wide-eyed horror when he saw the chief.

"Oh no you don't!" Stalans yelled as the man tried to escape down an alley. Pounding after him, it took less than five seconds to catch up with his fleeing target and slam him up against the wall.

"What do you want?" the man demanded, struggling to release himself from the chief's grip. "Leggo! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"My ass, you didn't!" Stalans retorted, sneering at the struggling man. "I should run you in right now. I have enough to put you away for a good long time, and you know it. But you're lucky… it's your boss I want."

"I don't know anything," the man said automatically. His eyes darted up and down the alley, hoping desperately that no one saw him talking to the fuzz.

"I think you're lying," the chief said, taking hold of the man again and slamming him back into the wall with so much force the wind was knocked out of him. "You're Paulson's messenger. You know exactly where he is. Tell me, _now_!"

"He's not here!" the man gasped out as soon as he was capable of speech again. "He left!"

"Left… where did he go?"

"I ain't telling you," the man said scornfully.

"Look here," Stalans snarled, pulling the man closer to him by the front of his jacket until their faces were a mere inches apart. "What do you suppose would happen to you if he even suspected you had talked to the police? Hmm? How long do you think you'd last? I'd bet you don't survive the weekend."

"You're bluffing," the man hissed. "I didn't tell you a damn thing!"

"You think that matters?" Stalans laughed harshly. "You really think Paulson would stop to find out if it was true or not? He'd kill you just for the fun of it!"

The man stopped and thought about it. Seeing that he wasn't entirely convinced, Stalans dropped the cynical smile and glared fiercely at him.

"You think I'm bluffing?" he asked quietly. "You think I won't get the word out that you spilled everything you know? Go ahead… you look me in the eye and tell me you don't think I'll do it. Tell me where Paulson is going, or I'll drag you down to the jail myself and you can wait there until he comes to kill you."

Shifting his weight and glancing around him nervously, the man did some quick thinking. The cop was right… he wouldn't survive a single day if Paulson thought he had ratted him out. And he had no doubt in his mind whatsoever that the half-crazed police chief would make good on his threat. He could always lie, of course, but it was all too likely that someone was watching them at that very minute – someone who would love to be the one to spill the dirty news to Paulson and gain favor with the big boss. The best he could hope for now was that Stalans caught Paulson, and soon.

"New York," he said. "Bayport. Something about Hardy. Now you know, let go of me!"

Stalans tossed the man aside and strode off towards his car. Bayport… Hardy. Why was he going after Hardy? Stalans knew for a fact that the damn kids didn't know a damn thing about Paulson. Well, it didn't matter. He knew just where to find his prey now.

Still glancing around him, the man who had ratted out his boss hurried from the alley and emerged on the street, tugging his jacket down and headed straight for the train station, adopting a casual, fearless gait. He could afford to be fearless for now, until he got out of town. Everyone knew it wasn't fair to shoot the messenger.

Stalans stopped short upon reaching his car as he found his way obstructed by two men wearing official looking suits and flashing official looking badges. The chief frowned. Just what he _didn't _need… Feds.

"What the hell do _you_ want?" he snapped, making no attempt to be friendly. "I have better things to do than chat with the likes of you people."

"Oh, we know you do," the closer agent answered, glowering in response to Stalans's unfriendliness. "I'm Agent Bishop, this is Agent Markison."

"Who cares?"

"Where are you going now?" Agent Markison countered.

"Well now, that's really none of your business," Stalans sneered.

"You're going after Jeremy Paulson. That _is _our business. If you know where he is, then let the FBI handle it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"Look, Stalans," Agent Bishop sighed. "We know you've been following him. We know you just talked to one of his men. We know he told you something. _Where is Paulson_?"

"You boys just back off," Stalans glared unhelpfully. "Paulson's _mine_. You Feds would just screw everything up, like you _have_ been doing for the last two years. _Stop following me_! If I see you again, I swear to God I'll pound your faces in. Now get out of my way!"

Shoving his way between the two FBI agents, the chief got in his car and tore out of the parking lot, squealing his tires and burning rubber in his haste to get to the airport after Paulson.

The two federal agents glanced at each other and sighed.

"Well, that went well," Bishop observed dryly.

"How do you think Calloway would handle him?" Markison wondered aloud, referring to their old partner. Bishop shrugged.

"She'd probably smile at him, tell him to have a great day, then follow him anyways," he pointed out. Markison nodded in agreement.

"Let's go then."

Getting into their own government-issued sedan, the two agents began tailing the maddened chief down the road. The hunt was on!

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	12. In Which Fenton Doesn't Answer the Phone

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Sadie: I would've sent a personal thanks, but since it won't let you reply to anonymous reviewers, here's a big thanks for the review! I'm certainly glad you like this story! Haha, and you're right... it IS high time that Frank had to do a little bit of suffering, LOL! Joe's always getting picked on. Oh well, what else is fanfiction for if not to angst it out by torturing the characters you love? :) Thanks again, I hope you keep enjoying! (and reviewing, LOL)_

_To all the rest of my readers/reviewers: Thanks so much for all the continued support! This chapter's a wee bit shorter, but it's harder to get more writing done these days with everything going on. I'm trying to get all my applications for grad school done, and I haven't even started studying for the entrance exam which is in October, and I have physics this semester and I can't understand the teacher's accent, and... yeah, it's stressful. So keep those reviews coming, they make everything so much brighter! Thanks y'all!_

* * *

After Sam left with Laura and Joe, Fenton was left to pace the waiting room on his own. He was relieved that his family was in good hands, but now he was alone. If nothing else, he was still learning every day just how lucky he was to have Laura around. She was still sore at him for not keeping a better eye on Frank and Joey, he knew that. But she hadn't allowed her anger to detract from the support she always showed him.

She was an amazing woman, Laura Hardy. She had known when she married Fenton that she was getting herself into what could potentially amount to a great deal of grief and heartache, but stuck it out every single time. Beneath the sweet, motherly countenance that most saw in the young woman, there was a stubborn, hardened streak that nearly drove Fenton to his knees under the weight of his pride and love for her.

But she was where she needed to be, which was keeping Joey and herself safe until the mess was cleared up. So Fenton walked in carefully measured steps from one end of the room to another. Fifteen paces to the coffee machine on the wall… eighteen to the door… fifteen to the row of chairs on the other end… eighteen to where he had started, standing beneath the TV hanging on the wall, entertaining itself.

"Is anyone here for Mark McGarry?" a voice suddenly said from the doorway as a nurse walked in, holding a clipboard. Fenton stopped his pacing and watched as a white-faced woman stood trembling and tugged a silent young girl behind her. The nurse smiled and beckoned the two to follow her. As the doors swung to a close behind them, there was a stagnant pause as the remaining occupants of the room caught their breath again and resumed their wordless vigils.

The process repeated every time the nurse walked through the door. Everyone in the room would freeze like deer in headlights, not even daring to breathe as they waited to hear what name would be called. Sometimes the nurse would greet them with a smile, and they knew everything was alright. Sometimes, the nurse would only give them a look of tremendous pity and sadness, and they knew that a piece of their world had quite literally just ended.

Another nurse. Another incredible silence. The nurse gazed around, unwittingly but cruelly adding to the terrifying suspense. She wasn't smiling.

"For William Richardson?"

Squaring his shoulders resolutely, Fenton stepped forward. The nurse studied him for a few seconds which lasted for hours, before her face finally broke into a smile.

"He's awake."

* * *

"Where are we going?" Joe asked Sam, trying not to seem to scared. He understood why they had to go, but he wasn't happy in the least. How could his father send him off like that? How could he keep Joe from trying to help find his own brother? And how could he give him such a shoddy excuse as needing to take care of his mom? She was with Sam, he would take care of her! Joe wanted to go find Frank!

"Just somewhere we can hide out for a while," Sam answered honestly, letting go of the wheel to pat Joe's shoulder. "Everything's going to be alright, Joey."

Joe nodded, but he was seething inside. In his mind, he was being treated like a child and he did NOT appreciate it! If he could just get Sam to-

"Don't even think about it, Joey," Laura suddenly said, breaking the silence. Joe looked up at her with widely innocent but slightly surprised eyes. His mother gazed solidly back at him, hiding a smile that her youngest son really thought he could fool her. She knew what he was thinking, and there was no way she was going to let him out of her sight.

Joe held her gaze momentarily, then sighed and turned to look moodily out the window as the trees flashed by. One thing was for sure – he was not going to sit idly by. He would wait as long as his limited patience would allow, and then he was going after Frank one way or another.

* * *

"Whaddya mean, he ain't answerin'?" Bruce demanded. Derek slammed down the phone in frustration and spun around to face his partner.

"I mean, he's not answering!" he snapped. "Nobody's picking up the phone. I guess they're just not home."

Bruce through his hands up in the air before stomping back and forth across the floor, trying to think things through.

"Where the hell could he be?" he snarled. "Why ain't he sittin' at home waitin' on a call that'll tell him where his son is? Ain't that how it's supposed to go? Where else would he be if not at home?"

"Well, how do I know?" Derek countered grumpily. "You don't suppose he's out looking for us, do you?"

"Lookin' for us?" Bruce laughed harshly. "He ain't got no idea who we are or where we'd go! He's got nothin'! So how exactly would he be out lookin' for us?"

"Maybe he went to the cops," Derek suggested. "There were those two at his house before… Maybe we should call them instead?"

Bruce continued to stomp around the room, thinking hard. He gazed around the old, decrepit building. They had driven around for quite some time, both to disorient their mostly unconscious passenger and to find a decent hiding place where they could lay low until Paulson got there. Finally, they had come across what appeared to be an abandoned train station on the far outskirts of Bayport.

The location was ideal. No one would think to look for them here. The idea was to contact Hardy and get him to come for the kid. He would secretly have the police with him, of course – they always did, regardless of any contradictory instructions – but Bruce and Derek had already planned for that. They had _everything_ planned, every contingency accounted for, save one: what to do when Hardy didn't answer the phone.

"He's got a cell phone, ain't he?" Bruce finally said aloud. "I'd bet the kid knows what it is. Come on."

* * *

Lost in the shadowy corners of his own mind, Frank sat where the two thugs had left him, on a step up to one of the four platforms in the small station. Any other time, he might have been worried about the old, rotten wood crumbling away beneath him, or worse, the roof caving in and crushing him. But at the moment, he had more pressing and unrelenting concerns.

_No more blood, no more blood, no more blood_… The blood just kept accumulating. He had killed a man, that was the majority of it right there. Then the doctor who had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – killed because of Frank. Now his father would be coming to get him. Frank had no doubt of that… his father _would _come. And when he did, they would kill him.

That blood was even worse than that which Frank had put there himself. Steinway had not been a particularly good man, but Fenton would die just because he was trying to save his son. Frank couldn't let it happen… Joey and his mother still needed his father, for one thing. For another, Frank wasn't sure how much more blood he could handle. He couldn't let it happen. There could be no more blood.

"No more blood, no more blood, no more blood, can't get it out, doesn't come out, no more blood, no more blood," Frank muttered under his breath. He really wanted to wash his hands again, whether it would do any good or not. However, they were still tied behind him, so he stared off into space instead with wide, empty eyes, rocking back and forth with so much intensity he almost knocked himself over every time he moved.

"What the hell is he talking about?" Derek whispered. The two were now sitting in front of the young boy, staring at him in confusion. They had stomped over, demanding for him to tell them how to contact Hardy, but the only answer they had gotten was the cryptic, frenzied mutterings. Bruce waved a hand in front of Frank's face, but he didn't so much as blink.

"Hell if I know," Bruce grumbled. "Somethin' ain't right with this kid. Look, it's like he don't hear us or see us."

Derek grabbed hold of Frank's shoulders roughly and shook him.

"Hey, kid!" he yelled in Frank's face. "Kid, we asked you a question… what's your dad's cell phone number?"

This time Frank returned to reality long enough to realize he was being asked a question. It never even occurred to him to be scared. It never occurred to him that they wouldn't hesitate to shoot him if he didn't answer. He was too far gone. They wanted his father's phone number? So that he would come, so that they could kill him? They thought Frank was going to add that blood to his already tainted soul? They truly believed he was going to say a word? How terribly amusing.

His mouth splitting into a wide, madcap grin, Frank began to laugh manically. His odd cackles echoed eerily in the old train station, sounding almost deranged. His eyes still didn't meet those of the thugs before him, and he still didn't answer. He only laughed.

Derek and Bruce exchanged baffled glances. They had threatened a great deal of people in their time, but never had they gotten such a strange reaction. It was almost creepy, actually.

"Kid?" Bruce asked uncertainly. "What's wrong with you anyways?"

As abruptly as the crazed laughter had started, it stopped again. Frank turned slowly to face Bruce, his eyes wide and half-demented. Hardened criminal as he was, Bruce was forced to back up slightly as Frank stared through him, his feverish eyes boring through him. Finally, Frank turned back to watch the floor before him sightlessly as he began to rock back and forth again, reciting his muttered gibberish.

"No more blood, no more blood, no more blood…"

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	13. In Which Richardson Provides a Clue

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Kick: Sorry I couldn't reply personally to your review. Thanks for leaving one though! LOL, you're right, that would have made a pretty decent title too. Then maybe Cheryl would've caught on faster (LMAO, just kidding Cheryl!) Here's your update!_

_To all other reviewers, once again thank you so much! Anyone else who writes knows how much they mean to an author, so keep them coming. I need them, LOL! No, seriously. _

_Sorry guys, there's no Frank or Joe in this chapter. But read it anyways! :) And don't worry, the boys will be back in the next chappie. _

* * *

The damn feds were following him. Stalans was not pleased. The amateurs… they couldn't even have gotten a different flight. All they had to do was flash their badges and they were on the same plane as he was.

He was not pleased.

It had taken a great deal of struggle to keep himself from storming over to their seats in the back (as if by sitting in the back, he wouldn't notice them. Really. It was almost insulting.) and follow through on his threat to pound their faces in. Tempting as the idea was, Stalans wouldn't do it. Oh, but not out of the kindness of his heart. No, he had the inclination, as well as the means. He wasn't afraid of retribution from the FBI. He didn't care in the slightest what kind of punishment he would get for attacking a federal officer.

What he did care about was that to do so would cause a delay. A delay would be all it took for Paulson to disappear again, possibly forever. This was Stalans' only shot. The look on the two agents' faces would be almost – but not completely – worth losing Paulson. Not now. Not when he was so close. So close… so close… so close…

Stalans watched out the airplane window as gray storm clouds rolled in, covering the world in shadow. They would be landing soon… he might as well figure out his first move now. His best bet, he decided, was to track down Hardy. Figuring out where he lived shouldn't be too hard. With any luck, Paulson would already be there.

"Attention, passengers. We will be landing in approximately ten minutes. The captain requests that everyone put their seatbelts on, store tray tables away, and keep seat in the full upright position. Again, we will be landing in approximately ten minutes. Thank you!"

Stalans glared at the loudspeaker for interrupting his thoughts, then allowed himself a grim smile. By the end of the night, Paulson would be his. No matter that he was going to New York, well out of his own jurisdiction. That's what citizen arrests were for. He was off duty... no, he was basically fired, which meant he WAS just a citizen. No matter that he had FBI agents following him. He didn't care if they swept in and took credit on the arrest. Whatever label was put on the matter - citizen's arrest, federal arrest, whatever - Paulson was his. So close.

* * *

"How are you related to Dr. Richardson?" the nurse asked as she led Fenton into the back.

"I'm not family, I'm the one who found him," Fenton answered honestly, though omitting the part about Richardson treating his son. "I'm a detective. Did the surgery go alright?"

"We don't usually disclose much information to people who aren't family…" the nurse began with a frown. Fenton stopped in the middle of the hallway and put a hand on her arm.

"I understand that, ma'am," he said with forced politeness. "But the men who shot him kidnapped a young boy. It's vital that I know as much as possible, do you understand? A child's life may depend on it." And more lives than just Frank's, Fenton thought.

"It's against protocol," the nurse said doubtfully, but she studied Fenton with a mixture of pity and compassion. "But I suppose we can make allowances. The surgery was successful… the bullet was lodged in the upper part of his left lung, which was partially collapsed. But it missed any major blood vessels, and it was nowhere near the heart, so I'd say his chances of full recovery are optimal."

"Thank you," Fenton said gratefully as they continued down the hallway. The nurse smiled in response but added a word of caution.

"Just realize that he's been through some serious trauma, and he might not be able to stay awake for long. Just the act of talking is going to tire him out, especially with a partly collapsed lung. I'm already bending the rules… so keep it brief, alright?"

Fenton nodded, hoping with all his might that Richardson would be able to tell him something - _anything_ - that would lead him closer to Frank.

* * *

Pain.

Dr. Richardson winced against the bright lights of the room and closed his eyes again. It took a moment to reorient himself… why, for example, he was in a hospital room hooked up to a monitor with lights that rose and dropped to the cadence of his pounding heart, proving at least that he was alive. Or why, for example, his shoulder and upper arm hurt so horribly despite the fact that he felt rather as though he had been dosed with something. Like he had been shot…

He had been shot. That was it. Coming back to full reality with a calmness that only a psychiatrist could possess, Richardson pulled the pieces together. Young Frank Hardy had been making such good progress… what had happened to the poor boy after he lost consciousness?

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he heard the door close. Opening his eyes again slowly, Richardson was surprised – but relieved – to see Fenton Hardy walk slowly over and sit down in the chair beside him.

"How are you feeling?" Fenton asked with genuine concern, knowing that his impatience to get to Frank wouldn't excuse him for not asking.

Richardson managed to give him a wry smile in response, mentally wondering how he was _supposed_ to be feeling after getting shot in his own office when the son of the man who was asking the question had been under his supervision.

"Frank?" he whispered, his voice breaking coarsely under the strain of talking.

"He's disappeared," Fenton answered after a heavy pause. "We think the men who shot you took him."

It hurt to talk, but there was no need to speak aloud what showed in the doctor's eyes. Regret, sorrow, fear, and pity. A thought occurred to him suddenly, but before he could find the strength for speech, Fenton continued.

"Did you see the men who shot you?" the detective asked urgently. "Could you identify them? We have absolutely nothing to go on. Anything, even the smallest hint, would help. Do you have any idea who they were?"

Dr. Richardson shook his head slowly. Fenton's head drooped and his heart sank as the information sunk in: there was no way to find them now. Richardson had been his only hope. If the doctor had been able to obtain even the slightest clue regarding the men, Fenton would have something to _do_, something to chase down. Now he had nothing.

The psychiatrist closed his eyes in an effort to save vital energy so he could stay awake long enough to communicate to Fenton what he had to say. His heart went out to the detective… Richardson knew how terrified Fenton was for his son. Reaching out a shaky hand, he grasped Fenton's sleeve and shook it weakly.

"Listen… me," he wheezed, struggling for breath. Fenton's head snapped back up immediately, and he leaned in close, barely able to make out what the doctor was saying.

"Years…ago…" Richardson continued faintly. "Patient went… crazy… Attacked…me."

Fenton nodded, wondering where the story was going. The psychiatrist paused to cough forcefully before settling back down.

"Police… never got… him. I was… always…afraid… would happen… again…"

"Yes?" Fenton asked, trying to quell his impatience. What was Richardson trying to tell him? What did a patient attacking him years ago have to do with Frank? Dr. Richardson opened his eyes, seeking out Fenton's and trying desperately to hold on long enough to make him understand. Steeling himself, gathering his fading strength, the psychiatrist gasped out a single word…

"Cameras…"

Sudden realization hit Fenton like a jolt of electricity and he sat bolt upright in his seat. The detective took Dr. Richardson's hand gingerly in his own and squeezed it gently.

"Thank you," he whispered. There was nothing else he could say; no other words would do to express his overwhelming gratitude. The psychiatrist managed a brief, limp smile before he succumbed to the drugs that gently urged him towards unconsciousness.

Leaping to his feet, Fenton ran for the door, his cell phone already in hand. Part of him felt slightly guilty about leaving Richardson there alone, having received all the information the doctor could give him. The rest of him was sure that Richardson would understand, however, and it was that part that screamed for him to move as fast as he could before anything happened to Frank that would irreversibly destroy him forever.

"Chief, it's me!" he called, shoving past nurses and the waiting family members of other patients in his haste to get out the door.

"Any news?" Collig answered with honest concern. He and Con, along with three other officers, were in the middle of processing the psychiatrist's office. As of yet, they hadn't made any progress whatsoever, but all the men stopped immediately when they realized who the chief was talking to.

"Chief, he had cameras set up. Check for cameras!" By now Fenton was already slipping into the driver's seat and starting up the car.

"What? Fenton, we've already gone over his office, I didn't see any…"

"They're hidden, then. Look again! I'm on my way over right now!"

Fenton kept one eye on the road and one at the increasingly darkening sky. He mentally dared any traffic cop to pull him over as he sped down the freeway, heading for the psychiatrist's office. Somewhere in that building was the evidence that would lead them to Frank. Excited to have a lead, but terrified of what if might reveal, Fenton said a quiet prayer for the safety of his son.

"Hold on, Frank," he whispered. "I'm coming."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	14. In Which Frank Retreats

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_More updates, yay! I don't think it's really going to matter to anyone here, but I'm changing the rating from K+ to T. When I started out, I really didn't expect this story to end up going quite the direction that it did, but it has. So, yeah, the rating's changing. And just a warning: Frank's going to get substantially worse before he gets better. :(_

_Oh, and so there's no confusion: italics represents what's happening in Frank's mind. None of that is really taking place. Though I'm sure you all would have understood... but just in case, now you know!_

_Thanks to you lovely reviewers! You continue to make this story worthwhile, and I thank you for it! Keep them coming! I don't own the Hardys. If I did, I would make the poor little things hot chocolate and give them lots of hugs. _

* * *

By the time Fenton reached the psychiatrist's office, Con had already found the cameras. They hadn't really been hidden, but they were certainly "discreet". In truth, they would have found them before had they not been so focused on the crime scene on the floor. There was a substantial amount of blood, both on the floor and splattered on the nearby wall. Besides that, the police had to go over ever square inch of the door, desk, chairs, and floor in search of hair, fingerprints, or any other possible evidence that would help identify the criminals. Poking through the untouched books that lined the shelf mounted high on the wall to find a inconspicuously placed camera had not seemed like a priority.

Once they knew what to look for, however, it was easy enough to find the three cameras; one in the office, one in the lobby, and one that pointed out towards the parking lot. Hooking up the equipment quickly, Chief Collig had the playback ready and waiting when Fenton burst through the door.

"Did you find them?" he asked immediately. Collig pointed at the desk where the monitor sat waiting to be played.

"We just finished setting up. I thought you'd want us to wait for you," the chief informed him. "There were three cameras in all… this is the one from the office here."

The detective and the five police officers crowded around to get a view of the monitor. Chief Collig clicked the play button and the video began, starting a few minutes before the men came in. Fenton watched as his son reached out a hand and swatted a checkerboard off of the table, apparently in anger or frustration. He wished the cameras were equipped with audio as well, wondering what had gone between Frank and the doctor to cause an emotional response that Frank had been previously unable to give.

A minute more, Frank talking more than Fenton had heard out of him in a while, looking upset. Then he was quiet and the doctor started to say something. Fenton gripped Collig's arm for support as he watched the door be kicked in and two men entered, guns drawn. He could only shake his head in disbelief as they simply shot Dr. Richardson, not giving him time to say a word.

"Damn," Collig muttered. "They were wearing masks… we won't be able to-" He broke off as, to everyone's surprise, the two men took off the masks that were covering their faces and turn on Frank. Pausing the playback, Collig smiled grimly as both men were caught square on by the camera. Their faces were slightly upturned, so every detail was captured on video. Printing the screen quickly, Collig handed the page to Fenton in satisfaction.

"That's evidence enough," he stated. He hesitated, knowing what was probably going to happen next on the video and not sure if Fenton ought to watch. "Why don't you run that downtown to the station and have them run a match on those faces?"

Fenton wasn't fooled by the request, and didn't even deign to offer a response to such a ridiculous idea. He stared at Collig, glaring pointedly. The chief shrugged and took the printout back, handing it instead to one of the younger officers.

"You ready?" Collig asked quietly as the officer disappeared out the door. Fenton's face grew slightly pale but he nodded with absolute conviction. He had to know what had happened to Frank, if only because he would make dead certain that if they had hurt him, they would be repaid in kind.

Clicking the play button once more, Collig started the video as everyone gathered in close again. Fenton felt the blood drain from his face as one of the men picked his son up, though he smiled grimly at the fight that Frank was putting up. Beside him, Con was shaking his head in admiration.

"You've taught Frank well, Fenton," Con remarked with a small smile. "I'd hate to be those guys."

Fenton nodded, almost smiling himself as Frank landed a hit on the man holding him, squirming violently. The smile was replaced almost immediately by a look of intense anger as the other man hit his son on the back of his head, dropping him to the floor in a heap.

Collig laid a hand on Fenton's arm sympathetically as the detective clenched his fists tightly. If looks could kill, the two men in the video would have melted away already. Watching as they picked Frank up and carried him out of the room, Fenton felt his heart breaking. Silently, Collig switched over to playback the video from the camera overlooking the parking lot. Fast forwarding to when the men were coming out, they got a clear shot of the men bundling an unconscious Frank into the back of a car. After pausing for a moment, presumably so one of the dirty bastards could tie Frank's hands behind him, the car pulled out of the parking lot and drove off for the edge of town.

Again, their luck had held; as the car turned off onto the road, the tag number turned towards the camera, clearly visible. Running the plate would take no time at all. Still, Fenton couldn't celebrate. Once again, he had failed his son. If only he had been there... Logic told him that things would have gone much worse if his whole family had been at that office, but logic wasn't enough to ease the pain. It never was.

* * *

Paulson was pleased with the setup. The train station was the perfect hideout. Quiet, out of the way, mostly falling apart and completely forgotten. Nobody would be bothering them out here.

Paulson was pleased with the setup, but he was _not_ pleased with the situation. They had yet to get a hold of Hardy, couldn't even reach him in fact. It was rather difficult to threaten someone when they couldn't even be reached. And even if they did, they couldn't use the kid to get to him. It was the strangest thing that even Paulson had ever seen. Far from being scared, the kid apparently didn't know he was there.

Even to Paulson, it was eerie. When he had arrived at the train station and his two men had explained that the kid "hadn't been there" for the last half hour, he thought maybe the Hardy brat was just trying to play brave. But then he had walked over to him, and was forced to agree. The kid simply wasn't there.

The kid sat there with his eyes wide open and staring at nothing in particular. There was no fear in his eyes, but there wasn't anything else either. He was wide awake, but his body was rigid, unmoving. Nothing Paulson did or said could provoke a reaction. Even when he gave the kid a good shove, he only fell over onto his side and stayed that way. He didn't even blink, but continued staring straight ahead.

It was eerie.

"Think, Paulson," the crime boss muttered to himself. He sat down and pulled out his pistol, polishing it with a rag from his pocket. The familiar feel of the cold, gleaming metal relaxed him, allowing him to think more clearly as his men watched stupidly without contributing.

"If he's not at home, he's trying to find us," he finally said. Derek gave Bruce a look of clear "I-told-you-so" but Paulson ignored them. "We'll call the cops. You said at least two of them were helping him anyways. He must be with them."

"What if he's not?" Derek spoke up, feeling particularly bold. He withered slightly as Paulson glared at him.

"Then we hang up and think of something else, you idiot," Paulson snapped. Had he been in Atlanta, he would have shot the man just for asking, but he was in New York and didn't have any replacements readily available. Derek was just lucky, that was all. Paulson moved on to the next problem; Hardy was going to ask to speak with his son, to make sure that he was still alive. In his current condition, the kid was not going to be able to help. They would have to try and snap him out of it somehow.

"What's the kid's name?" Paulson asked, directing the question at Derek. Derek stuttered, wracking his brain.

"It's… um… it's…"

"Frank," Bruce supplied. "That's Hardy's oldest kid."

Nodding, Paulson leaned over, snapping his fingers in front of Frank's face.

"Hey, kid. Frank. Wake up, I need you. Frank!"

_"Fraaaaank!"_

_In the pitch darkness of his mind, Frank heard his name being called. Of course they were calling his name. They wouldn't stop, they just kept calling, all those voices. The voices called to him, and the rolling echoes of the voices called again. From all sides, voices yelled to him, unpleasant and taunting. Frank… Fraaaaaank. _

_And suddenly, there was silence. _

_In his mind, the darkness dissolved away to reveal instead a long corridor. The floor was made of plain, unfinished wood, while the walls were wood paneled. There was very little light in the hallways of Frank's mind, which he felt for some reason was rather symbolic. The entire place seemed somehow familiar to him, though he longed achingly to reach the end. However, it seemed to Frank that the hallways kept going forever, no matter how far he walked. He even tried to run, but the halls just kept going on and on and on for all eternity. _

_For a long time, Frank roamed down the hallway alone. Mostly he didn't think about anything at all, but for a brief moment, he wondered vaguely if perhaps this was hell. It certainly seemed hellish to him. Had he died at some point and didn't realize it? He couldn't remember ever dying... he thought that one's own death really ought to be something that one tends to notice. Maybe hell was waiting for him at the other end of the hall. It seemed like he had been walking for years upon years, and now the end - any end - would be a relief. _

_The corridor took a sharp turn. Hoping perhaps it was a sign that he was almost out, Frank hurried around the corner and run smack into the walking corpse of Bill Steinway. Frank would have screamed, but he was unable to make a sound. A knife was embedded in Steinway's chest, but the corpse only grinned at him and extended a hand that streamed blood… blood that gushed out in fountains but never seemed to reach the wooden floor. _

_Come, join me, the corpse seemed to say. What's the matter, Frank? The voices came back, calling his name in a singsong voice. Fraaaaaaaaaank... come join us, Frank._

_In a terrified panic, Frank turned around with the full intention of running back to where the hallway began. He didn't care what was waiting for him there. He had to escape this nightmare. As he turned though, his heart skipped a beat as he came into contact with some sort of barrier. The corridor had disappeared behind him, leaving only a wide swath of white nothingness, like a painting that hadn't been filled in yet. It was as though the world simply ended behind him, and he couldn't move that direction. The only way was forward now, past the body of the man he had already killed. _

_Spinning back to face Steinway, Frank clenched his eyes tightly shut and ducked, blindly darting past the corpse as fast as he could. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes and turned to see what had happened. Though he knew he had gone several yards forward, there was nothing behind him but blankness; a white nothingness that was following him, demanding that he keep moving forward. There was nothing else to do. In his mind, Frank continued on, the laughter of Bill Steinway echoing in his ears and chasing him down the corridor that did not end._

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	15. In Which Fenton and Paulson Converse

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Sorry it's been kind of slow going. My muse went for a coffee break and forgot to come back. But it returned, so here's another update! As before, italics represent Frank's mental world, not the real one. Thanks to my reviewers and readers (especially the reviewers) and I hope you enjoy this next little installment!_

_I don't own the Hardys. Any similarities between the plot and actual occurrences are frankly just creepy, not intentional. _

* * *

Laura wasn't happy with the situation. She had allowed herself to be led out of the hospital with Sam for the sake of Joe and Fenton. Joe, because she needed to know he would be safe, and Fenton because he needed to know that she would be. She didn't doubt the practicality of the situation. It made perfect sense that the remaining Hardys should hide until the danger was past. But just thinking about things in _that _way – that way, meaning _hiding_ – made her feel absolutely sick. _Hiding_, while Frank was in danger...

From the look on Joe's face, he agreed with her sentiments completely. Laura hid a smile. Well, he _was _her son after all. He didn't like the idea of hiding any better than she did. She glanced up at Sam, their driver and protector. Laura didn't need a protector. She needed her child, _in her arms_. It was hard to tell what Sam Radley was thinking though. There was a permanent calmness about him that was usually reassuring, but tonight was only frustrating.

Of course, having Sam _was_ a relief. Maybe she would be able to sneak away, as soon as they got wherever they were going. Had Sam not been there to keep an eye on Joey, she wouldn't have even considered it, but now... granted, she didn't really have a plan beyond that, but a partial plan was better than none at all.

"Mom," Joey whispered suddenly, breaking through her thoughts. "Mom, I'm hungry."

"Aren't you always?" she teased him, trying to keep the mood light and not let on how worried and upset she was. "We can eat later, okay sweetie?"

Joe frowned. _Later_ was not going to work in his plans. If they drove too much farther, they would be out of Bayport and it would be much harder to direct a cab back home. It would be easy enough to slip under Sam's nose, he hoped, and only a little harder to slip away from his mother, seeing how preoccupied she was. Joe could catch a cab, head home, and…

Well, the rest of the plan would come to him later, he decided. A partial plan was better than none at all.

"Mom," he whispered again. "I'm _really_ hungry." To back him up, Joe's stomach growled with forlorn emptiness, bringing a smile to Sam's face.

"I could do with some coffee myself," he decided, turning off the road. "I suppose we could stop for a small bite."

After all, they were out in the middle of practically nowhere now. Fenton had said to keep a close eye especially on Joe – and Sam wasn't letting his guard down for a second! – but even Joey couldn't expect to get far, not out here. Besides, Sam was so focused on his driving that he completely missed the smugly satisfied smile at a job well done that crossed the young boy's face.

* * *

Paulson sat on one of the rotting train station benches, waiting impatiently for someone to pick up the phone. The kid never had snapped out of it, but they would have to work around that. If Derek or Bruce noticed that he was sitting as far away from Frank as possible, they were far too smart to mention it. That was good. They lacked just enough common sense that Paulson never had to worry about them starting to think for themselves, but had just enough to keep their mouths shut when necessary.

And with Paulson, it was necessary the majority of the time.

"Collig here," a brisk voice suddenly barked into the phone. Paulson smiled. He'd had to call the police station, convince the secretary that it was of the utmost importance he speak to the chief at once, and finally be patched through to the chief's cell phone; a process that should have only taken a few minutes. If his own people had taken so long to get such a simple thing accomplished, he would have shot them all.

"Is this the police chief?" he asked lazily. Derek and Bruce drew in closer as they realized their boss was finally getting somewhere.

"Yes, it is," Collig answered, sounding puzzled. "Who's this?"

"Is Fenton Hardy there?"

"Yes… yes he is. Why?"

"Put him on."

"I beg your pardon? Is there something I can help you with or-"

"_Yes_ there's something you can help with," Paulson snarled impatiently. "Let me talk to Hardy. Now!"

An infuriated silence followed, Collig apparently trying to discern how important the call was before a muffled exchange between him and Hardy took place and finally the detective's voice came on the phone.

"Hello, Hardy here."

"You really ought to have gone home, Hardy," Paulson said silkily. "You would've gotten to your dear son Frank so much quicker that way." He laughed softly as Hardy gasped. Paulson could practically smell the delightful aroma of fear even over the phone. Fathers. It was just too easy.

"Where's my son?" Fenton yelled, fury welling up inside him. "Who is this? Where's Frank?"

"Oh, he's right here," Paulson smiled, ignoring the other question. "He misses his daddy."

"Let me talk to him," Fenton demanded. "Let me talk to Frank."

"Ah," Paulson sighed. He knew Hardy would ask. "It appears that… Frank… is feeling a bit unresponsive at the moment."

Another pause followed as Fenton struggled to control himself. Losing his cool now would not help Frank.

"I need to talk to Frank."

"Too bad. He can't talk to you."

"Why not?"

Paulson glanced over at Frank, whose bug-eyed, glazed over stare was directed at some point over Paulson's right shoulder. "I told you," he growled. "He's not responsive. He won't say anything. And believe me…" Paulson chuckled evilly. "I tried to get him to speak."

"How do I know he's even there then?" Fenton asked, impressively biting back every single one of the words that he would have rather shouted.

"You'll just have to take my word for it. I wouldn't go through all the trouble to grab your kid if I was just going to kill him, now would I?" Paulson narrowed his eyes as Hardy hesitated. "Look Hardy, losing touch with reality was his idea, not mine. I wanted you to talk to him, too. But let me put it this way. Are you willing to gamble your son's life on whether I'm lying or not? Because if you don't believe me, Frank's not worth anything to me anymore and I'll kill him anyways."

"What do you want?" Fenton asked finally, his shoulder sagging. This guy was right. He couldn't risk getting Frank killed. He would just have to play along and hope for the best.

"What do you think I want, Hardy?" Paulson smiled. "You know what I want, and I have what you want. Now, this is how it's going to work. The cops you're with are going to stay where they are. You're going to come meet me at the marina. If you do what I say, I'll take you to your son. But I'm warning you… if I see any cops, Hardy… even one… I will kill you, and then I will go kill him. Do we understand each other?"

"I understand," Fenton said, his voice growing low and quiet. "But I'm warning _you_ now. I don't care who you are. If you lay one finger on my son… if you hurt him at all… if I find out that you've done _anything_ to him… I will kill you myself. There will be nowhere on this earth for you to hide that I won't find you. I will hunt you down, and I will destroy you."

"The marina, half an hour," Paulson said, unimpressed. "Don't forget, Hardy. Come alone."

With that he hung up, leaving Fenton to wonder what exactly had just happened. Closing Collig's cell phone slowly, he held it out for the chief to take, his mind working overtime with fear for his son and thoughtfulness about what he should do next.

"Fenton?" Con asked quietly, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Fenton, what did he say?"

"He says to meet him alone at the marina in half an hour," Fenton answered in a low voice. "No cops. Otherwise he'll kill Frank."

"Fenton, there's no way you're going out there without any backup," Collig said in an authoritative tone that left no room for argument. "We don't know anything about these men or what they're capable of. That's ridiculous."

Fenton nodded. He had been in the detective business too long to risk such a foolhardy plan. The police could hide themselves well… that wasn't what was bothering him.

"I have no idea what he wants," he said out loud. The officers stopped and looked at him in confusion.

"He didn't say?" Con asked incredulously. "Why call to make demands if he isn't going to… make demands?"

Fenton shook his head. "He said I already knew what he wanted. I don't even have the slightest idea who he is, let alone what they might want from me. Or why they wanted it badly enough to take Frank."

"You don't recognize them at all?" Collig asked disbelievingly, pointing at the screen where the two kidnappers' faces stared clearly up at the screen. "You have _no_ idea?"

"I've never seen them before in my life," Fenton answered with conviction. He sighed, feeling weary. "But I don't suppose that matters. All that matters is getting to Frank."

Collig glanced at his watch. "We don't have time to wonder about it," he commented gruffly. "Don't worry, Fenton. If you wear a wire, we'll stay low and follow you. Come on, let's get you hooked up."

* * *

"You really think he'll come alone?" Derek ventured to ask as Paulson put his phone away with satisfaction. Paulson sighed, wishing yet again that his man wasn't so indispensable that he couldn't shoot him right there.

"No, you idiot," he snapped. "Of course he's not going to come alone. Hardy's no fool. Why do you think we're meeting at the marina? I swear to God, if you ask me another stupid question, I'm going to kill you."

Derek immediately clamped his mouth shut. Paulson nodded.

"That's better. Now listen, you stay here with the kid. You," he continued, pointing at Bruce. "you're going to come with me."

Walking over to where Frank lay unmoving and unseeing on the floor, Paulson leaned over and smacked the boy in the side of the head.

"Hey, Frankie boy! We're going to get your old man now! What do you think? Hey, Frank!"

_"Frank!"_

_Frank ignored the voice, continuing on his way stubbornly._

_The corridor had changed. Where the walls had previously been made of plain wood, they were now suddenly deep red brick. Also, the ceiling which had been high above his head was now only slightly taller than hand's reach, arching over him and decreasing his amount of breathing room considerably. Frank kept his hands in close, holding them in front of him… something deep inside him cautioned him not to touch anything._

_The hall still went on and on forever, as far as the eye could see. Frank had long since calmed down from his encounter with Steinway's dead and bleeding body. Of course, he'd had what felt like several lifetimes to do so. He could still recollect that he had existed in a different reality, somewhere other than this corridor, but the details were becoming increasingly fuzzy._

_"Frank…"_

_Why wouldn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't they leave him be? And then suddenly, there was another sharp bend in the hall. Because of the pattern of the brick, it blended in perfectly and Frank nearly walked straight into the wall. Stopping just in time, Frank hesitated, facing the wall and breathing hard. He could not forget what had happened the last time his mind forced him to round a corner._

_"Frank?"_

_Biting his bottom lip to keep from crying, Frank slowly turned to his left, facing the unknown._

_"Oh, hello, Frank."_

_He couldn't release the tears, but his body choked up in a dry sob as the foggy outline of Dr. Richardson came floating gently before him. Like Steinway, the doctor extended a hand from which blood was freely flowing, but there was no malice in the gesture._

_"Do you want to talk about it, Frank?" the doctor asked in a far-away sounding voice that echoed far down the brick hall. "Do you want to play a game? Joey says you play checkers. Remember Joey? Do you remember, Frank?"_

_Frank couldn't answer. Yes, he remembered Joey. Joey was his brother. That detail was one Frank could never forget, no matter how far down this corridor he walked. But Frank had let Joey down. He had left him. He didn't want to talk about Joey. He didn't want to talk to this ghost of the doctor, who was not a solid body as Steinway had been, but only the shadowy image of him, as though he weren't really there somehow._

_But he must be there. Hadn't Frank gotten him killed, after all? Surely he was dead, and haunting this hell that Frank had created, wasn't he? Another wave of guilt over the doctor's death washed over Frank. He couldn't talk to him. Yet…if anyone would know how to get out…_

_"How do I get out of here?" Frank tried to ask. His mouth moved, but no sound would come out. It didn't matter, for the doctor seemed to know what it was he was asking._

_"Get out? Well, I suppose all you really have to do is-"_

_The filmy figure of the doctor suddenly cut off to let out a ghastly shriek. Frank backed away in horror as the image was sucked backwards, turning into mist which was then swallowed whole by the grinning Bill Steinway._

_"Get out?" Steinway asked, blood dripping out of his mouth and spilling down his front as he spoke. "There's no getting out, Frankie boy. What's the matter, don't you want to come join us all down here?"_

_Frank wanted to run, his terror growing by the second, but he could only move forward. He tried to run past Steinway as he had done the first time, but this time the corpse of Steinway shoved him hard as he went by, knocking Frank into the wall with a heavy thud. Putting his hands out instinctively, Frank grabbed onto the bricks to keep himself from falling._

_Touching the wall was a mistake. As soon as his fingertips brushed the dark brick, blood started pooling outwards, centering around his hands, but growing into a cobweb of blood. Frank jumped away from the wall, horrified, but it was too late. Blood spread and ran of its own accord, dripping down from the walls and ceiling in an everlasting stream._

_Once again, Frank bolted down the hallway as blood dripped onto his head and arms. He tried to yell, but still was unable to make a sound that would cover up the hideous noise of laughter as the very walls themselves sang out his name._

_"Where are you going, Frankie boy? Fraaaaaaaaaaaaank!"_

* * *

TBC

* * *


	16. In Which a Race for Home Ensues

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Hey! An UPDATE! Whoo-hoo! I am so, so, SO sorry it took so long. I'd give everyone a really good excuse why, but I honestly don't have one. I simply lost motivation for a while. Please accept my most humble apologies, from one author to a whole bunch of really talented authors. I did try to make this chapter a little longer to make up for it, if that helps at all. :)_

_Thanks to all reviewers. It might have taken even LONGER to update if not for your wonderful comments. Everyone who takes a few minutes to leave a review makes everything better. So please, continue to read and review, and hopefully there won't be another gap quite as bad as this last one. Thanks again, you all are great!_

_I don't own any Hardys, although I do have a few of their books. _

* * *

"Sam, maybe we should go back home," Laura said softly to the detective. They had been sitting in the restaurant for half an hour already, and she was getting restless to move. Preferably in the direction of home. "What if Frank tried to call? What if… what if the men who took him tried to call? I really think we should go back."

Sam looked at her with pity. He knew the toll this was taking on Laura, but there was little he could do to help her. His duty was to keep her safe, whether she liked it or not.

"Laura, you know we can't do that. Fenton wanted you and Joe away from the house."

"He didn't want us there because he thought those men might come," Laura argued. "If they were going to rummage through the house, they would have done it by now. Sam, I really think we ought to-"

"No, Laura," Sam interrupted, putting a hand on the young woman's tense shoulder. "I'm sorry. We can't go back yet. I know you want to be closer to the investigation, but… we just can't. I truly am sorry."

Laura sighed. She wasn't going to give up. Shivering suddenly, Laura rubbed her arms, trying to rid herself of the chill bumps that covered her.

"It's cold in here," she mentioned vaguely, staring down at the table.

"Here," Sam said, his internal 'gentleman' taking pity on her. "Take my jacket." Pulling off his coat, he draped it over Laura's shoulders. "Feel better?"

"Yes, thank you," Laura said with a sweet smile, putting her hands into the deep pockets and feeling the cold metal of the car keys beneath her fingertips. There was more than one sneaky person in the Hardy family.

Joe, meanwhile, was also plotting. It was time to get out of there, time to get back to help Frank and his dad. An idea had come to him while he was sitting at the table of the fast food joint, swiveling back and forth on the chair as he ate his burger.

Even at twelve years old, Joe was smart enough to realize that his parents and the chief were _not_ going to be pleased with his helpfulness. But Joe knew that Frank wouldn't sit idly by if _he _was in trouble, and Joe wouldn't now. He'd just have to find something before his father figured out he wasn't hiding like he was supposed to be.

With this in mind, the plan was to sneak out, catch a cab, and head home. Then he would find out what the police already knew about Frank's disappearance; Frank had already given him the tools to do this. Joe knew that the police would be updating their database regularly with all the new information they received, and Joe now knew how to get into that database.

Then he would just have to try and figure out something that the police _didn't_ know yet. Joe wasn't sure he would even be able to… but he had to try. Frank would.

"Joe, are you almost done eating?" Laura asked, knowing that he wouldn't be. Not disappointing her, Joe shook his head, swallowing the last bite of cheeseburger.

"I'm still hungry," he complained. "Can I have another one?"

Though she had expected – and counted on – the answer, Laura still rolled her eyes in exasperation. Trying to feed all three of her boys was like trying to fill up a bottomless pit, but Joe was by far the worst.

"Fine," she said with a sigh, handing him a few more dollars. "But this is the last one."

Joe grabbed the money, victory dancing in his eyes. Sam had chosen a bench in the corner so he would be able to see anyone coming, but the restaurant was set up so that the cashier was around another wall, so they would never even see him sneak out the other door and then he could –

"Hold it!" Sam jumped in. Fenton had been right, he really couldn't take his eyes off of the youngest for even a second. Joe Hardy still hadn't mastered the art of hiding his thoughts and feelings, and possibly never would – escape was written clearly across his face and Sam was having none of it.

"What?" Joe asked innocently, opening his eyes wide and smiling easily. Sam shook his head. Some day that boy would be able to get away with anything with a smile like that, but for now Sam had a promise to keep to a friend.

"Laura, you go get him another one, ok? Joe, you aren't going anywhere."

Realizing that Sam had figured out what he was trying to do and that he wouldn't be able to get away now, Joe stopped smiling and settled for the next most mature reaction he could muster. He started sulking.

"But -"

"No buts, Joe," Sam said firmly. "You're not sneaking out of here."

Laura hid a victorious smile of her own as she took the money back and left the table. She did know her own child well. She was immensely glad that they had Sam Radley on their side, and she was even more relieved to know that her son would be in good hands. Sam took his job very seriously, and she knew that he would do everything in his power to keep Joe safe. This was good. Sam was the only one she would have trusted to leave Joe with.

Walking calmly away, Laura went right past the cashier and out the door, heading for Sam's car.

* * *

Paulson and Bruce stood in the parking lot, preparing to part ways. Bruce had driven them both close to the dock, but Paulson would be going a different way from there.

"Alright, you know what to do," Paulson said. It wasn't a question. Bruce _better_ know what to do, or his life plans would be cut short.

Bruce nodded.

"I'll get 'im there," he said in a low voice. "Ain't nothin' to worry about… I got it covered."

"Good," Paulson said emotionlessly. Just in case, he decided to explain it again anyways. There could be no mistakes this time. "If Hardy tracked us down in Atlanta, he must know who I am and what I look like. He's bound to have cops following him to the dock, but they won't move in if they don't see me. You get Hardy and bring him back to the train station, and I'll check his house to see if he's got any evidence… or witnesses."

Bruce nodded again. He understood his boss's concern. Hardy had a reputation as a very dangerous man… even in Atlanta the people of the underworld knew to avoid him, and there they were with his son. Driving a man like Hardy into a corner; it was risky bordering on reckless but Bruce had every faith in his boss. Nobody had ever stood against him yet and lived.

"I'll meet you back at the station in about an hour," Paulson said, looking around the lot where they were standing. Finding a inconspicuous car, he broke the window with his elbow and got in. Hot-wiring it took less than a minute and he was heading off through town.

* * *

They were following Stalans still. Damn Feds… when would they ever learn? Stalans smiled grimly to himself. They expected him to check in with the local police. It was a professional courtesy, to communicate with the Bayport police chief before butting into the investigation… a courtesy that Stalans didn't care a lick about. They would only be more bodies in the way of him and Paulson.

"Head for a car rental," Stalans said to the cabbie. "There's an extra fifty in it for you if you lose the cab that's following yours."

The cabbie raised his eyebrows, but didn't say a word. He was a talented driver, and fifty bucks would come in useful. What did he care who his fare was or why he was being followed? Spinning down a side street, the cabbie took turns at random, driving quickly and efficiently through parking lots and across crowded intersections. The cab behind them was soon lost to the skill of a veteran cab driver, and Stalans was reluctantly impressed.

Ten minutes later, Stalans tipped the driver generously, heading into the car rental office without any concern whatsoever with the Feds. By the time they realized they had lost him, they would track him to the police station, where he was not planning on being.

"Do you have a phone book?" Stalans asked the manager after he had signed the paperwork leasing a car. The manager nodded, handing him the requested book.

"Is there anything I can help you find?" the manager asked politely. Stalans didn't answer right away, flipping through the thick book until he came to the H's. Running a finger down the list, he stopped at the entry for Hardy, Fenton.

"You could tell me how to get here," Stalans said, pointing at the name he wanted. The manager glanced down, noting the name.

"Hardy? Fenton Hardy? He's a great detective, you know. If you ever need someone to-"

"Yes, I _know_ he's a detective, you moron!" Stalans snapped. "That's why I want to _find_ him. You New York types really aren't too sharp, now are you? Just tell me how to get there!"

The manager kept a professional face but his tone became much less friendly. Grudgingly giving the rude out-of-towner directions, he wondered briefly what business such a man could have with Fenton Hardy, but he didn't ask. His was not to question why.

Smiling to himself, Stalans drove off from the lot, heading towards the Hardy residence. Soon. Soon, he would have Paulson. He was so close.

* * *

"Look, Joe," Sam said with a heavy sigh. "I know you're worried about Frank. I'm worried about him too. But your dad is taking care of it, alright? Everything's going to be ok, but your dad can't be worried about you, too. That's why you have to stay out of the way until they get things taken care of."

"I should be helping him find Frank," Joe grumbled, not meeting Sam's eyes. He was frustrated to the point of tears, but he wasn't about to let Sam know that. "Frank would come find me, and I should be going to find him."

"Joe… you're twelve years old. This isn't a game. Whoever it was that took your brother have already shot someone, just for being in the wrong place. What do you think would happen if they got you, too? Do you know what that would do to your parents? And what about Frank… do you think he'd really want you putting yourself in danger?"

"He'd do it for me," Joe muttered again.

"But you wouldn't ask him to," Sam said shrewdly. "You'd want him to stay safe, wouldn't you?"

Joe didn't answer. Of course he'd want Frank to stay safe. But he wouldn't, whether Joe wanted him to or not, so he didn't really see how that mattered at all. Sam knew he had scored a point though.

"You just have to be patient, Joe, you –" Sam broke off as he realized suddenly that Laura had yet to return with Joe's food. "How long is that line anyways?" Standing, Sam walked far enough forward to where he could look around the corner and still keep an eye on Joe. His heart nearly stopped as he realized that the line was empty and Laura was nowhere in sight.

"Damn it," he swore under his breath. He hurried back to the table and took Joe's hand. "Joe, come on. We have to go!"

"What?" Joe asked, his eyes widening again. "What's going on?"

"Come on, hurry!" Sam said, not answering. Fenton was going to murder him… Throwing open the door to the restaurant, he hurried through the parking lot to where the car was. Or rather, to where the car had been. With a groan, Sam dug through his jeans' pockets fruitlessly. Not only had he given Laura the perfect opportunity to run back home… he had given her the means to do it. He had put the keys right into her hand.

"Cold in here, my butt," he muttered under his breath. "Laura, you-" He couldn't even finish his thought. Unbelievable. How could he have been so stupid? Even in his fury at Laura for making him inadvertently break his promise, he couldn't help but be impressed. She must have planned out that entire scene in her head… and he had been so intent on keeping an eye on Joe, it hadn't even occurred to him that _Laura_ would make a run for it. She had known it wouldn't.

Behind his back, Joey grinned as he realized what had happened. He still wanted desperately to get back home, and he wasn't very happy about his mom using him to get away and not taking him with her… but he couldn't keep himself from smiling in pride. That would teach Sam to try and keep them from Frank!

"He's going to kill me!" Sam glanced wildly around, looking for some way to follow Laura. She would be going home, he knew it, but maybe if he could catch up with her, Fenton would be lenient and least let him update his will before he was shot.

As he stood there in the middle of the parking lot, the first few raindrops began to fall. Somehow the rain made Sam even more frantic and he almost missed seeing the car that pulled into the parking lot suddenly, blaring it's horn at him. Pulling Joe back onto the curb just in time, Sam eyed the car. Maybe…

"Watch what you're doing!" the driver yelled as he stepped out of the car, heading towards the restaurant door.

Coming to a decision swiftly, Sam pulled Joe towards the car.

"Sir, I'm going to need your car," he said in his best "police" voice. The driver stared incredulously at him.

"Are you joking? Who the heck are you? What do you mean, you need my car! You were in the middle of the road, it's not my fault! Who are you?"

"Police," Sam identified himself, flipping open his wallet and snapping it shut quickly before the man had time to realize that Sam wasn't actually a cop. "I need to borrow your vehicle. It's important."

"But-" the man started to complain but Sam cut him off.

"Don't worry, sir, you'll be reimbursed. Joe, get in. Now!"

"Hey wait, you can't just-"

"Sir, if you don't get out of the way, I'll have you arrested for impeding a police investigation!" Sam bluffed, spinning angrily towards the man. "I mean it, this is serious business! Now hand over the keys!"

The man faltered, unsure of what he should do. His mind was made up for him as Joe simply grabbed the keys out of his hands, tossed them to Sam, and jumped into the car before Sam could even open the driver's side door. Joey grinned again. Who cared how he was getting home, he was going!

Nor was he the only one. From all corners of Bayport, people were converging on the Hardy household: Laura had a head start and was closest, but Paulson, Stalans, and Sam were close behind. The only question was who would reach her first.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	17. In Which Frank and Fenton Reunite

__

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Abby – Hi, sorry I couldn't actually send a review reply. Thank you for your review anyways though, LOL! Yeah, I have to agree that what Laura did was rather less than smart, but I do feel like I ought to make a case for her. I'm not a mother myself, but I imagine that sitting idly by while a child is missing, especially a child in Frank's condition, would be much harder than anything I myself have ever had to do. Not to mention that she's guided by her emotions in the first place, like Joe. Yup, it's a flaw on her part, but that's also kind of the point. No character should ever be written perfect and never make a mistake. I figure that I've already had Fenton screw up a couple times, so Laura should "mess up" at least once just to be fair! :) Not to mention that her presence at the house will end up being necessary. Anyways, thanks again for reviewing! I loved hearing your thoughts, and I hope you start enjoying the story again!_

_Thanks, everyone else who's reading and reviewing. I don't own the Hardys. I just use them for my own sadistic enjoyment._

* * *

It was not the first time that Fenton had been involved in a hostage situation. Sometimes he was the negotiator. Sometimes he was the hostage. He had once been the hostage taker himself, but that had been under very special circumstances… a different story for a different day. As a detective, especially one as experienced and world-renowned as he was, it was expected that these types of situations were bound to happen frequently.

Fenton was not naïve. He and Laura had both known that the day might come when their family or friends may be threatened because of his work. Somehow, the forewarning did nothing whatsoever to relieve the tension and worry that he was normally able to quell. This wasn't an client, or the family of a client. This wasn't a faceless name that he was supposed to be saving. This was Frank, his own son. Fenton was scared.

He couldn't see Collig or Con, or any of the officers that he knew were tailing him at a safe distance away. The earpiece that he wore was a comforting reminder that no matter what happened within the next hour or two, he wouldn't be alone. Fenton had trusted his life to the chief before, and he felt confident that he could do it again.

"Hardy!"

Fenton froze as his name was called out. He squinted into the darkness, trying to see at last just who it was that he was up against. The dock was pitch black however, and he could barely see the ground in front of him… let alone Frank's kidnapper.

"Where are you?" he yelled into the night. He stepped back slightly as a man materialized out of the darkness, moving forward until he was standing only a few feet away from Fenton.

"Right on time," the man remarked idly. Fenton glared at him, in no mood for frivolity.

"Where's my son?" he demanded. The other man sighed, looking almost as though he were bored with the entire process.

"Alright then, Hardy," Bruce said grimly, waving the gun in Fenton's direction. "Here's how this is goin' to work. I'm gonna make sure you ain't carryin' any weapons. Then, movin' real slow, you're gonna come get on the boat. You and I are goin' on a little trip to see your son. You make one funny move and I call my other associate and Frank has bought the farm. Understood?"

"I understand," Fenton said simply, keeping his face expressionless. The larger man came towards him. Fenton stood motionless, keeping his hands out as Bruce patted him down to make sure he wasn't carrying a gun.

"Alright, you're clean," Bruce muttered. "Get in."

Biting back his nerves by reassuring himself that backup was close by in case of trouble, Fenton clambered into the small, outboard motor boat that was drifting quietly in the choppy water. A light rain was falling, but Fenton barely gave notice.

After they had been on the water for a significant amount of time, Fenton noticed that while the boat was moving at full speed, his silent companion seemed to be steering fairly aimlessly, as though he were just moving for the sake of moving as opposed to heading in any sort of purposeful direction.

"Where are we going, anyways?" Fenton asked, hoping to get some answers out of this man so the chief would have some idea of what was happening.

Not bothering to answer Fenton's question, Bruce suddenly cut the motor on the boat. Fenton glanced around him in confusion. They were in the middle of the water, with no land, dock, or… _anything_ in sight.

"Why are we stopping here?" Fenton asked, his nerves mounting. "What are you doing?"

"Just takin' care of some business, Hardy," Bruce said with a smile. Fenton stared back at him, baffled. Without warning, Bruce grabbed hold of Fenton's jacket and, with a mighty heave, sent him flying into the icy water.

Taken completely by surprise by the unexpected move, Fenton made a grab for the side of the boat but felt his fingertips slip off. As he fought to stay above the water, he suddenly saw a pair of hands coming out of the darkness and he was pushed back beneath the surface.

Fenton tried not to panic as he felt the immovable hands keeping him held down. The other man was in too strong of a position for him to fight off; the angle he was at meant that he could hold Fenton there indefinitely if he so chose. The detective struggled with all his might, trying to escape from the other man's iron grip. He could hold his breath for quite a long time when necessary, but the freezing cold of the water combined with the fact that he'd had no time for preparation meant that his lungs were now burning, begging for a taste of fresh air.

Fear began to cloud his oxygen-deprived mind. Not fear of death – that, he had long since become accustomed – but fear that if he could not find Frank, then nobody ever would. The fear kept him hanging on past his own breaking point until he thought he must surely be dead. A deep sorrow fell over him as he realized he had failed his son, and he stopped struggling, preparing to give in to the crushing waters.

At that moment, he felt himself being heaved back up to the surface and the strong hands that had held him down now flung him back up into the boat. Fenton gasped in deep lungfuls of the beautiful, salty air, the coolness of the breeze and the light raindrops feeling like heaven on his face. For a moment he just lay on the floor of the boat, enjoying the simple act of breathing, as Bruce stared down at him, waiting on the detective to recover. When Fenton finally felt as though he might be able to try talking again, he sat up slowly and glared at Bruce.

"Wh-what… the… _hell_… was that?" he wheezed out, still catching his breath. Bruce shrugged and started up the motor again.

"Now we know we're alone," he said simply. It took Fenton a moment to figure out what the man was talking about, but he soon realized exactly what Bruce meant, when the small bud in his ear began to zap uncontrollably. Fenton twitched, wincing as the electronic piece shorted out painfully in his ear. Clapping a hand to the side of his head, Fenton frantically pulled the now useless earpiece out, tossing it aside in disgust.

"Paulson knew you'd have the fuzz with ya," Bruce said, smiling smugly. "You shouldn't have followed Paulson to Atlanta, Hardy. Ain't no way you were ever gonna take him down."

"Wait… what?" Fenton forgot to be surly for a minute in his confusion. "What are you talking about? Who the hell is Paulson?"

"Don't get smart with me, Hardy."

"I'm not! I have no idea what you're talking about. Why did you take my son? Who's Paulson?"

"Only the biggest mob boss in Atl-" Bruce broke off and eyed Fenton shrewdly. The detective was speaking in true bewilderment. He really didn't know… but how was that even possible? "What d'ya… how do you not know Paulson? It was _his_ garage your two brats found!"

"What?" Fenton was utterly lost. The garage had belonged to some… crime boss? Then what had Steinway been doing there? "Look, my sons and I were just helping out an old friend… Bill Steinway was stealing from him."

"Steinway?" Now it was the huge man's turn to be lost. "What…you mean you were only after him? You weren't on Paulson's trail?"

Fenton shook his head slowly, but he was beginning to see the pieces fitting together.

"No," he said, trying to keep the smile from crossing his face. "But let me guess. He was your boss's accountant, wasn't he?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Steinway must have kept two separate sets of records," Fenton continued, thinking out loud. "He must have gotten them mixed up and left Paulson's financial information at Almonzo's office. Frank and Joe wouldn't have known the difference… they thought they were going after an embezzler, not a mob boss."

Fenton's eyes lit up suddenly. "That's why the Atlanta police chief was being such a jackass! He thought we could give him something on this… Paulson. And that's why the building was blown up, to cover Paulson's trail!"

"Clever of you, Hardy," the henchman said snidely, more because it sounded threatening than because he had any idea what was going on. The detective had apparently made some huge revelation, but Bruce himself still didn't quite understand what that might be.

"And that's why you're here now," Fenton said, the final pieces falling together. "Because Paulson thinks we're the only link left. I hate to disappoint you, but we never even knew what was going on. We were just trying to catch a thief."

Bruce had no idea what to do with this new information. His best bet was to say nothing at all. Paulson would deal with it. Sighting the bay he was aiming for, the thug carefully steered the boat towards dry land, bring the boat to a halt a few feet away from the shore. Killing the engine again, he waved his gun at Fenton, motioning for him to get out and walk towards the car that had been parked there before.

"Time to go, Hardy."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, both men were pulling up outside the old decrepit train station.

"Alright, here we are," Bruce muttered, getting out of the car and tugging Fenton inside.

"Frank!" Fenton yelled the instant he caught sight of his son, wrenching his arm out of Bruce's grip and hurrying over to Frank's limp form on the ground. Derek pulled his gun and pointed it at the detective, but Bruce shook his head, motioning for him to stop. Hardy wasn't going anywhere without his kid, and the kid was incapable of movement. There was no danger of either of them getting away.

"Frank, look at me," Fenton pleaded, physically pulling Frank up off the floor into a sitting position. Frantically working at the ropes that bound his son's hands, Fenton finally tore them loose and tipped Frank's head back, trying to make eye contact. "Frank?"

_"Fraaaank…"_

_The voices had changed. So had the corridor. It was no longer brick, but cold, dark, gray stone. The closest comparison Frank could come up with would be an old, medieval castle, except no castle he had ever seen pictures of had blood oozing down the walls. Blood smeared across the floor before him and dripped from the ceiling that hung directly above. If he was any taller, he would have to duck just to make it through. Torches lined the walls in some places, their flames not orange and cheerful but deep red in color, which added more to the darkness than it did to the light. _

"_Frank."_

_There it was. That voice. That voice that was not like the others, but the one that he knew so well. Not yelling or taunting him, but saying his name with unbearable gentleness. Ever since Frank had seen the maniacal, grinning corpse of the man he had killed, he had known that this was going to happen. Now he knew he was in hell. First had been Steinway. Then the doctor – not a full body, just the vague, foggy form. But now… now he knew. Now he was in hell. Now he could hear the voice of his father. _

"_Frank."_

_The voice of his father, the voice of the man who's death was on Frank's own hands, was calling to him from behind the door that had suddenly appeared. Frank stopped his everlasting trek down the corridor to examine this new strangeness. It was the first time he had seen a door the entire time he'd been walking the hall. An escape? It was a simple, dark wooden door, but a gilded door knob caught his eye. It seemed almost to glow with a golden warmth, and Frank slowly reached out a hand. He let his fingertips softly brush the handle, longing for the comfort of seeing his father._

_The instant he touched the door, though, blood from his hands gushed forward with evil intensity, splattering across the wooden door. Frank immediately shied away from it. What had he been thinking…he had already killed his father. His father had come to save him, and they had killed him. Frank had done enough already. He couldn't open this door and bring him into this dark place of blood and evilness. He couldn't open the door... he just couldn't._

_Chocking back a sob, Frank turned and ran as fast as he could down the stone hallway with walls that leaked blood out of every hole…walls that no longer bothered with torches but left him in semi-dark twilight… walls that now hemmed him in until he was practically crouching as he ran, hyperventilating with sudden claustrophobia…walls that led him straight and unwaveringly towards the final descent into hell._

* * *

TBC

* * *


	18. In Which Laura Finds Some Trouble

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks to all you who leave reviews! I love reading them. Also thanks to everyone who's been reading. Hey good news... I wrote the ending today! There's still quite a bit more, no worries, and there are huge gaps that have yet to be written, but the ending's done! :) Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter! _

_I don't own the Hardys. Wouldn't that be nice?_

* * *

Paulson had expected to find documents, files, papers of all kinds full of incriminating evidence against him. He had expected a computer whose hard drive was chock-full of web pages outlining his own activities and past crimes. He had even expected a few extra alarm systems put in, perhaps even an officer standing guard, thinking Hardy would surely suspect that he would be coming. He was ready for any of that.

What he was _not_ ready for was Laura Hardy.

She hadn't noticed him right off. Paulson had picked his way silently into the house from the back door and came in to the kitchen from the back. There she sat at the table, her back to him as she hunched over the table with a cup of tea, staring at the phone which sat on the table next to her. Paulson paused for a minute to watch her as she sighed and ran a hand distractedly through her thick, golden-blonde hair. Hardy certainly had good taste in his women, he decided. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. If only he had more time to spend at the Hardy residence…

Laura Hardy spun around suddenly, sensing the presence of someone else in the house. Her eyes opened wide in shock, but she never hesitated.

"Get out of my house!" she shouted as she snatched up a butcher's cleaver setting next to her that Paulson had not previously noticed and flung it at him with all her might.

It was a good throw. Eerily good. With the reflexes acquired through years as a boss of the underworld, Paulson ducked just in time, feeling the air of the gleaming cleaver as it passed over him right where his head had been a split second earlier.

"Very well thrown," Paulson said with a smile, hiding his shock at how close he had come to decapitation. He casually walked towards Laura, who backed up against the wall, looking for something else to throw. "But I have one better."

Aiming his gun at her, Paulson motioned for Hardy's wife to sit back down in the chair where she had been before he came in. She made no move towards it, but instead grabbed a can opener that happened to be by the sink. The idea of this woman attacking him with a can opener was so ludicrous that Paulson actually laughed. He continued laughing too, right up until she reared back and smashed his hand with the deceptively heavy tool, causing him to bellow in pain and nearly drop the gun.

"I said, _get_ _out_!" she yelled, taking another swing. Paulson grabbed her hand before she could hit him again and stuck the gun in her face, pulling the hammer back ominously and frowning at her. One of the gears of the can opener had caught on his hand, leaving an angry red welt on the side… now he was annoyed.

"Come now, Mrs. Hardy. Let's be smart about this. How do you expect to help your son when you're dead?"

Laura inhaled sharply at the mention of her son. He was right… defying him would do no good to anyone. She didn't need to be told that this man would shoot her without any hesitation whatsoever. Reluctantly, she dropped the can opener and allowed him to propel her back to the chair.

"Where's Frank?" she demanded as the intruder went through the kitchen drawers until he found a roll of duct tape. "What did you do?"

"Don't you worry about him," Paulson answered unhelpfully as he tore a strip off and bound Laura's hands behind her, securing her to the chair. "Now you just sit tight here," he smiled down at her, patting her cheek. "I have a phone call to make."

Confident that Hardy's wife wasn't going anywhere, Paulson took the opportunity to check out the office as he dialed Bruce's number.

"It's Paulson," he said when Bruce answered the phone. "Any problems getting Hardy back to the train station?"

"None," Bruce replied quietly. "Did like ya said, threw 'im in the water. Ain't no one followin' him now. He ain't tried nothin', just sits there with his kid."

"Good," Paulson said in satisfaction. "I had some luck. The wife was here, so I've got her now. We're going to use her to get Hardy to talk, but I want to be there for it. You get out here to the house and keep an eye on her so I can work on Hardy, got it?"

"On my way," Bruce said before hanging up. Now probably wasn't the best time to mention that Hardy didn't have the first clue what was going on.

Paulson was about to turn back for the kitchen, where Laura Hardy sat waiting for him, when, through the window, he caught a movement in the driveway. A car had just pulled up, not using the headlights. That could only mean one thing.

"We have another guest coming," Paulson commented in satisfaction as he reentered the kitchen. "Even better. You make a sound and I'll shoot whoever walks through that door."

"Go to hell," Laura snapped in a most unladylike manner, glaring at him. Paulson sighed and tore off another strip of duct tape, slapping it roughly across her mouth. Her attitude was starting to irritate him… she was just lucky that he needed her to talk to Hardy. Turning the lights in the kitchen off, he settled down in the darkened corner and waited.

* * *

"Sam, what are we going to do now?" Joe asked as he and Sam got out of the car. Sam put a hand out, stopping him in his tracks as the detective surveyed the driveway.

"Laura, what have you done?" Sam muttered. This was bad. His own car, he recognized, but that other one… the fact that the front window had been smashed in was not a good sign. He didn't need a detective's instincts to tell him that something was horribly wrong here.

But what was he supposed to do? Sam was torn…

On the one hand, Joe was his responsibility. He had promised to look after the youngest Hardy in particular… to leave him outside alone was risky but to take him inside with him was out of the question. If he left him, there was a possibility the boy would get in trouble. On the other hand, if he stayed there it was a _certainty_ that Laura would be in even worse trouble. There was no way Sam could simply sit there now that he knew something was amiss. But what to do with Joe?

"Sam?" Joe prodded, looking up at him questioningly. Sam came to a decision swiftly, taking him by the shoulders and leaned down so they were eye to eye.

"Joe, listen to me now, because this is very serious. I think your mom's in trouble, and I have to go inside and help her. You have to promise me that you'll stay in the car, and keep low. I don't know what's going to happen, but if whoever's in there comes out I don't want them to see you."

"What's going on?" Joe asked, starting to become a little nervous with the entire situation, and Sam's tone was not alleviating his concern.

"Just promise me, Joe!" Sam said urgently. Now that he had made a decision, he wanted to get to Laura as soon as he could. "Joe, _swear_ to me that you'll stay low, in the car, no matter what happens! You have to swear!"

"But I-"

"Joe!"

"Alright!" Joe cried. "Alright, I swear!"

Sam nodded, squeezing Joe's shoulder comfortingly before opening the car door and ushering him in. Slamming the door closed, Sam drew his pistol and headed for the house.

The lights were all out in the kitchen. Groping along the wall for a switch, Sam finally found it and flipped the lights on.

"Laura!" he said hoarsely, hurrying over to her. Pulling the tape off her mouth, Sam barely had time to register the fear in her eyes as she shook her head frantically before something large and solid slammed into the top of his head from behind, causing him to see stars momentarily.

Before he had time to recover, a strong pair of hands took him by the back of his collar and smashed him into the counter-top, knocking the wind out of him. Rolling onto his back, Sam growled at his attacker and pulled himself to his feet, breathing heavily. He had lost his gun when he hit the ground, but he didn't need one to fight.

Without stopping to gauge the intelligence of his decision, Sam charged the intruder head on, catching him by surprise and bringing him to the floor. Laura could only watch on as both the men rolled around on the floor beneath her, each trying to pin the other down and scrambling to gain control of the single gun between them.

The intruder may have been much smaller than Sam, but that also meant he was hard to hold on to. Sliding out of Sam's grip, Paulson swung the gun up, bashing Sam in the face and causing the detective to let go of him long enough to put his arms up, trying to prevent any further attacks to his head. Paulson took the opportunity to jump to his feet, coming to a halt beside Laura.

Sam froze as he saw the gun in the intruder's hand resting gently to the side of Laura's head. _Sorry, Fenton_, he thought bitterly as he slowly got up, going to sit next to Laura in the indicated chair and allowing the intruder to secure his hands behind him with the duct tape.

"Laura, are you alright?" he asked when the intruder went back to check the study one more time.

"I'm fine," she muttered, looking away. Now Sam was caught too. Where on earth was Joe? Her heart was nearly breaking with worry, but she didn't dare ask him with the kidnapper so close by. "Sam, why did you follow me here?" she asked sadly.

"Wh-what?" Sam blustered. "Why did I follow you? Why the heck did you leave? What did you _expect _me to do? Gosh darn it, Laura! Do you have any idea how much trouble I'm going to be in with your husband?"

"Sorry," Laura sighed. "I know, I know I shouldn't have… but Sam, I had to."

"Well, I hope you're pleased," Sam said grumpily. Laura smiled slightly, looking over at her old friend with large blue eyes and Sam could see where Joe got his puppy-dog look from. He sighed and shook his head, but couldn't help returning her smile.

"I'm just glad you're alright," he said finally, giving her a reassuring look.

"For now, anyways," a voice interrupted. Sam and Laura both looked up as Paulson reentered the room triumphantly.

Paulson was happy. Now he had _two_ hostages to make Hardy see the light: his wife, and what appeared to be his partner. If only he could get the other son as well. Hardy wouldn't have left him without protection. The partner, perhaps? Maybe the other kid was around here somewhere as well.

"Where's the other one?" Paulson asked, lazily polishing his gun with the cloth from his pocket.

"The other one?" Sam repeated, confused. "What other one?"

"The other little brat," Paulson replied coolly, stomping over to the detective and grabbing a fistful of his hair, wrenching Sam's head back to look up at him. "Where's the other boy?"

"Leave him alone!" Laura snapped, though she too desperately wanted to know the answer. "Do you really think we'd be so dumb as to bring Joe back here?"

Paulson let go of Sam and turned thoughtfully towards Laura instead. "I don't know," he remarked casually. "You were both dumb enough to come back yourselves. Do you know where your son is, Mrs. Hardy?" Paulson leaned in close, stroking the blonde hair out of Laura's face. She shuddered at his touch and jerked away from him, but he only smiled.

"I took Joe to the police station earlier tonight," Sam lied quickly, trying to get Paulson's attention off of Laura. "You'd have to be crazy to try and get to him now."

"Pity," Paulson sighed. "I'm sure little Joe could convince daddy to tell me everything I want to know."

"He's not going to tell you anything," Laura said bravely, wondering what it was her husband was supposed to be telling this man in the first place. She still had not idea what was going on.

"Of course he will," Paulson disagreed with a sick smile as he checked his watch. "You and your friend here are going to see to that. Just as soon as Bruce gets over here, I can head back and have some fun." He leaned in close to Laura again. "I just can't wait to see his face when he hears you scream."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	19. In Which Joe is on the Move

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Hey, two updates in like four days! That's getting to be a record for me since classes started and I've been so slow! So if you haven't read the last chapter, be sure to do so or you might get confused, LOL! Oh, and review it too please? :) And don't worry, we'll be getting back to Frank shortly. Please enjoy! _

_I don't own the Hardys, but if I did I would never make them have to go to physics class._

* * *

Joe bit his lip, peeking out the window of the car in case anything happened that he could actually see. Sam had been gone for a while now. Joe hoped desperately that nothing had happened to him, or his mother. His young mind was already imagining the worst, and it did nothing whatsoever to relieve his fears. What if whoever was there had killed them? With Frank missing and Sam and his mother dead, where would he go? What was he supposed to do? Tears came to Joe's eyes as the horrible thoughts continued. What should he do?

"What would Frank do?" he whispered to the emptiness of the car. Not that he expected an answer, but it was comforting to think of his brother. The answer soon followed, however, as Frank's voice sprang to his mind unexpectedly.

"Well, I wouldn't just sit there after all the trouble I had to go through to get there in the first place."

It was true. Joey had tried so hard to get back home, it seemed ridiculous to not act on that now. But he couldn't go inside, he had promised Sam he would stay in the car, no matter what. He had _promised_… every twelve year old knew that promises, once made, could not be broken.

"That's right," Frank's voice said mischievously in his head. "Stay in _the car_."

Joe smiled, despite his fear. If whoever owned that car was the same man who had kidnapped Frank… maybe they would be going back soon. They could lead him right to his brother. That was how it happened in movies, wasn't it? He just had to be sure he was staying in the right car.

Opening the door quietly, Joe jumped out of the car that he and Sam had commandeered and headed for the other one parked in the driveway. Halfway there, he stopped, biting his lip thoughtfully. He really didn't want to go in there with no means of protecting himself and Frank. He needed some kind of a weapon… Joe's eyes fell on the trunk of Sam's car that Laura had driven there. He knew that his father had a gun stashed in the trunk of his own car, in case he was ever hijacked and got locked in there. Sam was his partner, perhaps it was a trick that they both shared…

Keeping one eye on the house, Joe quickly opened the drivers side door and popped the lid of the trunk. Hurrying to the rear of the car, he leaned inside, casting about anxiously for any sign of a hidden weapon. Shifting aside old newspapers, tools, remnants of doughnut boxes from stakeouts, and ninety two cents in loose change, Joe spotted an old shoe box. Opening it hurriedly, he grinned as a pistol gleamed back up at him. His dad had told them never to play with guns, but Joe wasn't playing games anymore. This was serious.

"Thanks, Sam," he whispered, shutting the trunk and creeping towards the stranger's car. Joe admittedly didn't know what he had been expecting, but it seemed strange to him that a kidnapper would drive a car with a large basket of sewing supplies and a half-finished quilt in the back. That, combined with the overwhelming smell of _cat_ put the image of a little old grandma in Joe's mind instead. At once, he imagined Frank being kidnapped by a little old lady offering him candy and pinching his cheeks, and he giggled at the idea. It wasn't particularly funny, but it made him feel better – at least, brave enough to climb into the back seat and cover himself up with the quilt.

His timing was dead on. No sooner had he shut the door and situated himself curled up on the floor of the backseat with a gun in his hand and a quilt over his head, he could see the reflection of headlights pulling up the driveway. Joe didn't know who it was – maybe it was the police? – but he wasn't going to budge an inch until he saw his mother or Sam.

In the end, it was neither one of them who came out. Joe held his breath, not trusting himself to breathe without making a sound, as the bad guy got in the front seat of the grandma car and drove away, taking Joe with him. Taking him to Frank.

* * *

"I don't care what it takes!" Chief Collig bellowed at one of his officers. "I don't care what you have to do, I don't care where you have to go, I don't care who you have to call! _Find out what happened!_"

Stomping around the dock where he and his officers, with the help of the Coast Guard boats, were scouring the area for any sign of Fenton, Chief Collig glared at everyone and everything that wasn't moving fast enough for his taste. _How _had this happened? How could they have _lost _him? Fenton had been _counting_ on them! On _him_! Collig had assured him that it would turn out alright, that they would be behind him all the way. Now, somehow, they had lost all trace of him and he was on his own. Collig desperately wanted to shoot something.

"Let's go, people! Move it!" Collig yelled again. "Find me something!"

"Chief?"

"What?" Collig snapped at the officer who hurried up to him. He felt a little guilty as the young man wilted slightly, backing up unconsciously in an effort to escape the chief's wrath. "Sorry," Collig sighed. "What've you got?"

"Sorry, Chief. There's a couple of federal agents at the station downtown. They're asking to see you, sir."

"Terrific," Collig muttered, rubbing his head in stressed anxiety. All he wanted to do was find his friend, and feds were _not_ going to be any assistance whatsoever. Con, apparently eavesdropping, walked up to them.

"Chief, you might as well go," he said, correctly interpreting Collig's hesitant face. "There's nothing you can do here. We'll keep looking, but we're fighting blind, sir. Feds don't drop in for idle conversation, it's probably important. I'll call you myself if we find anything, sir."

Collig looked morosely at Con, knowing that he was right. With the bug disabled, they were searching for a needle in a haystack, and who knew? Maybe the feds really _did_ have a good reason for being there.

"Keep me updated, then," he commanded with a sigh, heading for his car.

The entire way back to the station, Collig wracked his brains, trying to figure out why federal agents might be in Bayport at that moment. With the exception of the Hardys, Bayport was a fairly quiet little town. He hadn't done anything _recently_ that might incur the wrath of the federal government… what did they want with him?

As it would turn out, they didn't want _him _at all.

"Chief Collig, I'm Agent Bishop, this is Agent Markison," one of the men introduced them, shaking his hand. "We're following Chief Stalans from Atlanta. He should have been through here by now. Did he tell you where he was going?"

Collig sat down in his office chair with a groan, lounging back in it and propping his tired feet up on his desk.

"You're following who?" he asked tiredly.

"Stalans. Chief of police from Atlanta. Where did he go?"

Collig stared at the two agents, who stared very seriously back at him. "I don't know who you're talking about. I've been out all night, trying to find my friend, when you interrupted. There's not been any Stalans in here, and honestly I can't see how this is more important than me trying to find a man who's gone missing looking for his kidnapped son. Anything else I can help you with?"

"I assure you sir, this is no laughing matter. Paulson is a very dangerous criminal." Bishop said calmly.

"If he didn't come here, where would he go?" Markison asked, ignoring the exchange. "He was dead set on getting to Paulson in a hurry. I just can't understand why he _wouldn't_ come here right off so he could get started."

Chief Collig snorted in laughter. He hadn't had a large amount of experience working with feds, but those few times had not instilled him with enormous depths of faith in the government agents. He hadn't heard of this Stalans before, but he knew the way police chiefs thought, considering he _was _one. If this Stalans really was after a dangerous criminal, and if he was as determined to catch him as these men thought, there was no way he had ever been planning on wasting time by checking in with Collig.

"Trust me," he said, leaning back in his desk chair. "This Stalans of yours is already out looking for your dangerous criminal, like you probably should be."

"I beg your pardon?" Bishop snapped.

"You have a point," Markison said thoughtfully, again paying no mind to the jab against them. "I'd bet anything he's already out there." He turned to his partner. "Looks like we lost him, Bishop."

"Not so fast," Bishop answered, his eyes lighting up. "Now, we know he came to New York for a reason. The only connection is Fenton Hardy. It was him and his boys who busted Paulson's operation apart in Atlanta… Stalans must have gone to find Hardy."

"Wait, repeat that?" Collig said, sitting up straight in attention. "Fenton and his boys did _what_?"

"They found the warehouse he had everything stored in," Markison explained. "Didn't you know?"

Collig stared hard at the two agents, the wheels in his mind turning as the pieces slowly started to come together. Motioning them over, Collig clicked on the computer and brought up the video footage of the two men kidnapping Frank.

"Come here," he said. "I want you to take a look at something."

* * *

"Alright, Hardy." Paulson prowled around Fenton, enjoying his position of power as Derek stood close by, watching. He hadn't bothered tying him up, but let him sit next to his son. At this point, it was fairly evident that the kid wasn't going to wake up, and Paulson took great pleasure in how defeated Hardy looked as he watched his son. And he didn't even know that his wife was missing yet… that would be the icing on the cake. "Here's how it's going to work. I want to know how you found us and who else knows. Who's been working with you?"

"Look, like I told the other man… we weren't even after you in Atlanta! We were just helping out a friend of mine. I didn't know what was in the warehouse until your partner told me."

"A likely story," Paulson scoffed, amused at such a pathetic attempt. "You expect me to believe that your brats just _happened _to stumble on the one warehouse in the entire city of Atlanta that had enough evidence to put me in jail for the rest of my life?"

"Yes, I do," Fenton snapped. "And if you'll just let me explain why-"

"Forget it, Hardy. I don't think you appreciate how much trouble you're in. We could kill you right here and now, and no one could ever trace it back to us. There's nothing to connect us to New York, nothing at all. They have nothing on us, so you'd better talk. We can kill you, and then we can kill your two kids, then your wife. They don't even know we're here."

"Now, that's not necessarily true," Fenton said, unable to resist his small moment of triumph. "We have your two boys on camera. It's clear evidence of them kidnapping Frank. Once we get the results back from the facial recognition program, everyone on the Bayport police force will know who they are, and they'll be sure to notify the Atlanta police _and _the FBI."

"He's lying," Derek said immediately as Paulson turned towards him in quiet questioning. "There weren't any cameras, and even if there were, me and Bruce had masks on. They'd never be able to tell who we are."

"I'm not lying," Fenton countered, smiling. "First you walked in and shot the doctor. Then you went for Frank, but he put up a fight. He hit you, so your partner knocked him out. And you still might have gotten away with it too… except you were stupid enough to take the masks off."

"I… no, I-"

"Is this true?" Paulson asked softly. Slowly, he began polishing his gun with the piece of cloth from his pocket.

"I…we…" Derek couldn't tear his eyes away from the gun. "No! Well, yes we did take the masks off, but… but there weren't any cam-"

BANG!

Fenton flinched as the shot went off, leaving him alone with his catatonic son, an enraged mob boss, and a dead body on the floor. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around Frank, intending to keep any and all harm away from his son. Paulson apparently wasn't interested in shooting anyone else, however, as he put the cloth back away and smiled in wrathful satisfaction.

"Alright, then, Hardy," Paulson said through gritted teeth. "It looks like we have a problem here, don't we?"

Fenton didn't say anything, but stared stonily back at him. It was for the best. Paulson would probably kill him now, and likely Frank, but hopefully now that he knew everyone knew he was here, he wouldn't wasted time going after Laura or Joe.

"The way I see it," Paulson continued. "I don't need you anymore. You've already answered the question I came here for. Whether you're lying or not, I have to be going now."

No more than Fenton had expected. Paulson's eyes glinted evilly, and he smiled with malicious pleasure.

"But I guess we also don't need your wife or your good buddy Sam anymore." He laughed quietly as Fenton's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. He might have thought Paulson was bluffing, but for the fact that he knew Sam was with her too. So that's why the other man had left! …But where was Joey?

"It's a shame, really," Paulson continued. "Your Laura is such a pretty little thing. Maybe there's still time for me to go and… say good-bye. What do you think? Would you like to come watch?"

Neither man expected Fenton to move as fast as he did. Fueled by rage and the desire to kill the man who threatened his wife so callously, Fenton was on his feet and in Paulson's face before Paulson had a chance to realize what had happened. Disregarding the gun completely, Fenton went for his throat with a vengeance, wrapping his hands around Paulson and choking him with his teeth bared.

Paulson had never been one to lose his head in a fight, though. Shocked though he may be, he kept his cool, bringing his gun hand up and cracking it into the base of Fenton's skull. The detective ducked, but didn't let go, squeezing the life out of Paulson slowly. Struggling furiously, Paulson hit him again, but still Fenton clung on, refusing to be deterred, gripping Paulson as tightly as he could. Starting to feel the first twinges of desperation as he fought for air, the mob boss swung again, catching Fenton in the same place on the back of his head for a third time.

This time, Fenton went down and stayed down. The last thing he heard before he slipped away was Paulson's voice, rasping hoarsely through his damaged throat.

"Bruce, it's me. Kill them both."

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	20. In Which Frank Reaches the End

__

What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever.

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Thanks reviewers and readers! Only a few chapters left now. I truly hate to do this, but I might disappear off the face of the earth for a while though, because I have to take my PCAT (my entrance exam to pharmacy school, basically) in two weeks and I'm not near ready for it yet. I will try to keep reviewing everyone else's stories, because you all are just that fantastic, but I don't know if I'll have enough time to finish filling in the gaps of my own story until after the test is done. Hopefully, the end will be worth waiting for! :) As always, please read and review!_

_As before, italics represent Frank's mind-world. Non-italics... don't... obviously. _

_Nothing's changed since Monday... I STILL don't own the Hardys._

* * *

Joe was scared. _Really_ scared. He had successfully avoided being noticed by the bad guy driving the car. Now that he was there… what exactly was he supposed to do? He couldn't call the cops, since there wasn't a phone around. He couldn't go for help, because they were in the middle of nowhere and it would mean leaving Frank. He couldn't stay in the car like he had promised anymore, because now he was so close to his brother, he had to do something. He had the gun, but no ideas.

The young boy bit his lip, struggling with himself. He would just have to try and sneak in, figure out what was going on, and decide on a course of action from there. This was very difficult to do on his own, he decided. Usually, he came up with brilliant ideas of _what_ trouble they should get into, and Frank would figure out _how_ exactly they should do it. It was just how they worked.

With no Frank to make plans, though, Joe crawled quietly out of the car and snuck as silently as he could towards the dilapidated train station. He'd just try to wing it. The grass, wet from the earlier rainfall, combined with his nerves until he was shaking like a leaf.

"He's lying!"

Joe froze as he heard someone yelling from inside. He waited a moment, still hearing voices but unable to discern what they were saying. His heart was pounding so hard he was astonished that no one had come outside to see what the noise was. Clutching the gun in his hand for what little comfort the cold, unfriendly metal offered, he crawled a little closer until he was squatting down at the edge of where one of the doorframes used to be.

From his limited vantage point, he could see the driver of the car standing there, facing away from him with a gun in hand. He could also hear a little easier, and had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from gasping out loud as he heard his father's voice.

"…except you were stupid enough to take the masks off."

Joe was stunned. Why was his dad there? What was going on? What should he do now? There was more conversation, but he stopped listening. Amazingly enough, his main concerns were no longer how they were going to get out of this particular mess, but how exactly he was going to explain to his dad what he was doing there. He was going to be in _so_ much trouble… he hadn't planned on seeing his parents again until he had somehow managed to save Frank, taking their mind off the fact that he was _not _supposed to be there!

BANG!

This time, Joe _did _yell out loud, but it was covered up by the loud report of the gunshot. His heart was racing as well as pounding now, his chest was hurting from the mere energy of his heartbeat. He almost couldn't breathe… had the bad guy just _shot_ his dad? Or his brother? It couldn't be… it just couldn't!

Joe stayed where he was, shaking violently. His breath was catching in his throat, and his hands were trembling uncontrollably. He wanted so badly to peek around the corner and see what had happened, but he knew he would never be able to keep himself together if he found out his father was dead.

But he had to know. He had to see… plucking together the remaining fibers of his courage, Joe stood and slid around the rotten wooden beam, staying hidden under the cover of the nightfall. As he caught sight of the dead body of another man he didn't know on the ground and his family still alive, he nearly fainted from relief. So they were ok. He didn't know who that man was, but he was getting tired of dead bodies very rapidly.

"What do you think?" the bad guy was asking his dad. "Would you like to come watch?"

Joe didn't even have time to wonder what the man was talking about when his dad was suddenly attacking the other man, strangling him with an expression on his face that Joe had never seen before. God willing, he would never see it again. Both men were so caught up in their deadly struggle, neither one noticed when Joe cried out involuntarily as the bad guy struck his father on the back of the head, three times.

"Dad…" Joe whispered to himself tearfully as Fenton sank to the ground. The bad guy had already pulled his cell phone out and was talking to someone on the other end.

"Bruce, it's me. Kill them both."

"No!" Joe cried out, unable to stop himself.

Paulson spun around at the sound of his voice. Even though his neck and throat felt like they had collapsed, he smiled. With hair and blue eyes so similar to the wife, this could only be the other Hardy brat.

Joe looked from Paulson to his father and brother stretched out on the floor. He didn't want Paulson to know how frightened he was, or that he had no idea what he was doing, but it was a little too late for that. He couldn't even move to bring the gun up, as his hands hung uselessly by his sides.

"Police station, huh? Now, just how did you get here?" Paulson asked, his voice scratchy and broken. "That idiot Derek must have messed up again, I suppose."

"No, _you_ messed up. You brought me back in the car," Joe said, forgetting that, while his parents and teachers might not shoot him for not thinking before he spoke, this man just might. He chewed on his bottom lip as the bad guy's eyes narrowed in anger.

"I did, did I?" Paulson said in an even lower voice. "Come to save your brother, did you? I think I'll kill him first. It's a pity he went insane. He could have been a lot of fun to play with."

Joe gulped, trying and failing yet again not to show his fear. "Frank," he murmured, calling for his brother out of pure reflex. "Frank, help me."

"No one's going to help you," Paulson taunted the young boy. "You're all alone here, you know. They can't help you now."

"Stay back!" Joe yelled, finally bringing up the gun as Paulson made a move to step forward. He looked again at the floor, praying with all his might. "Help me… Frank!"

_"Fraaaaank…"_

_Frank wished it would stop. He wished it would end. How he yearned for a silence, to escape the twisting maze of bloody stone walls that hemmed him in. The hall was getting, if possible, darker, colder, and narrower. If he could just find the end of the corridor… by now he knew without question that if he reached the end, there would be no going back, ever. He would cease to be if he made it to the end of the hall, but he had stopped caring about that long ago. In fact, he was hoping for it._

"_Frank!"_

_There was nothing but darkness and voices. He could barely even see the walls, which was a relief because the blood was also hidden, except for the drops that fell from the cold stone and stained his skin and clothes until he was practically one huge bloodstain._

_He was starting to lose it. Maybe the end wasn't ever going to come. Maybe the bloody hallway really did stretch on for the rest of eternity. That would certainly coincide with his idea of hell. Unless...what was that up ahead? Could it possibly be…? Frank ran faster, excitement mounting with every step. Tears of relief came to his eyes, but even while trapped in the dungeons of his own mind he could not allow them to fall. It was the end. It was finished. In the distance, he saw the corridor suddenly become a single block of pitch blackness, even blacker than the darkness that surrounded him. If he could reach it… if he could make it to the end… he could simply become one with the dark and cease to be. Not dead in the physical sense, but gone forever until his physical body joined him in death._

"_Frank!" _

_The voices around him were becoming more insistent now, but Frank could barely hear them. He neared closer and closer to the blackness, the air around him become lighter as he neared the end, and then finally – FINALLY – he slowed to a stop. There it was… peace. Peace was right before him. All he had to do was step into the inky blackness and he could sleep for the rest of eternity. He was finished._

_Reaching out a shaky hand, Frank was only inches away when the voice called out one final time. _

"_Frank! Help me!"_

_Frank drew his hand back, shocked out of his daze, looking about him in confusion. That… that couldn't be. It was Joey's voice, he'd know it anywhere. What was Joe doing there? Had Frank gotten his brother killed as well? The mere thought was enough to drive Frank to his knees, his hands slapping to the sides of his head in pure agony and allowing bright red streaks to drip down his face. He rocked back and forth in grief. Not Joe, too. God, anything but that. _

_A door suddenly materialized beside the pool of blackness. Unlike the cold, stone walls and floor of the corridor, this door was made of fragrant cherry wood. Blood from the walls dripped down, but the door seemed to repel it, standing pure and unadulterated regardless. Like the door that had hidden his father, there was a golden doorknob that shone and flickered even in the dim light. _

_Frank hesitated before pressing an ear to the door, terrified that if he opened it he would see Joe's bloody and broken body dancing before him. There were sounds coming from the other side of the door, but it was too faint to make out. He pulled back, vaguely surprised that even though he had touched the door with his hands, not a single droplet of blood could be found on the cherry wood. Intrigued, Frank ran a bright red finger across the door. Blood dripped to the floor, but not even the faintest red mark stuck to the wood. Interesting._

_But he couldn't do it. He couldn't open that door. The fear that Joey was dead, dead like his father, was too much… it was just too much… Frank glanced back at the darkness. His exit. How peaceful it looked… the voices called from the depths of the black, called him to come, called to make themselves heard over Joey's voice which summoned him from behind the door._

_Glancing back and forth between the peaceful pool of death and the wooden door, Frank had no idea what to do. Behind him was the barrier that he could not cross. Ahead was the final resting place where he could leave all this behind. Beside him was the door, the door that called his name but made no promises. _

_Called his name… spoke to him in Joe's voice. Joey. Was it really Joe? All he had to do was open the door and find out. But could he take that chance? Could he risk opening the door?_

_Could he risk NOT opening the door? It was Joe. It was Joey's voice. Joey was calling him. _

_But he didn't WANT to go back, he just wanted to END… he was too tired of the pain. The internal struggle with himself hurt so badly that the blood dripping from his hands actually intensified, as if it sensed Frank was even considering escape, and it would do all in its power to keep him here. Here, where the blood was in control, where the darkness ruled his soul. Could he really open that door? He was so scared._

"_Help me…Frank!" _

_And finally… finally, Frank understood. For a moment, his mind was as clear as it had ever been, back in that reality from so many lifetimes ago. What was he THINKING? Joe wasn't dead, he was calling for help. He had ignored Joey once when his brother had needed him… nothing would ever make him make that mistake again, not even the sweet promise of nothingness. Anger and disgust at himself for nearly abandoning his brother yet again was enough to harden his resolve. Fighting the urge to fling himself into the darkness before it was too late, Frank gripped the golden door handle, wrenching the heavy door open wide. _

_To his relief, Joe wasn't there. Instead, a golden orb hung in the doorway, beckoning him in just as the darkness had. It was time to go find Joey. Taking a deep breath, he tugged against the darkness that howled and tried to stop him. He stepped out of the corridor into the bright whiteness that enveloped him, and_ on the floor of the decrepit train station, Frank slowly opened his eyes.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *


	21. In Which the Moment of Truth Shatters

_What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever._

_A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly. _

_Hey, an update! I'm sorry if this chapter isn't quite up to snuff, but I've been incredibly stressed out. I still have that darn PCAT to take (so I'm gonna disappear for another week) but I took a study break this weekend and just wrote. Thanks for all your reviews and encouraging words! Obviously, I don't own the Hardys, or I'd be rich and wouldn't be putting myself through this stupid test. _

* * *

"Kill them both."

"Got it," Bruce answered quietly, hanging up the phone. He turned to his two silent victims, bound to the chairs and unable to move. The man glared at him with intense anger while the woman – Hardy's wife – simply stared at him with fire and pity in her eyes.

Bruce didn't waste his time feeling sorry or guilty. He had killed plenty of people in his time. It wasn't a task that he took great amounts of pleasure in, but he felt nothing for them either. It was a job, and it had to be done. Bruce had been with Paulson longer than any of the other scores of henchmen who waited for their boss in Atlanta. He knew the way Paulson worked better than anyone. Follow orders, ask no questions, know the job, and _never_ _screw_ _up_. Paulson would either take care of you for life or take care of you for good.

"Time's up," Bruce said simply as he pulled the gun out of his waistband. There was no need for theatrics. This was a homicide, after all. A look of shock grew on the faces of both victims. Assuming they were afraid because they were about to die, it never even crossed Bruce's mind that they might be shocked _not_ by the gun in his hand, but by the dark shadow that was suddenly standing behind him.

"Police," a voice dripping with disdain and anger sneered from right next to him. "Drop the gun. You're under arrest, you son of a bitch."

Taken completely by surprise, Bruce spun around just in time to meet the well-aimed fist of John Stalans.

Stalans smiled, overwhelmingly pleased at the sight of Bruce dropping like a stone to the ground, the gun forgotten as he cradled his broken nose with both hands. There was no fight in the big man, he had been too completely taken off guard.

"Surprise," Stalans hissed fiendishly, yanking Bruce's hands behind him as roughly as he could and tightening the cuffs around them as tight as they would go. "Scum like you sure go down easy. Get up!" Dragging Bruce to his feet, Stalans flung him down to sit in a third kitchen chair, using another pair of cuffs to link the criminal's hands to a bar of the chair.

When Bruce was secured to Stalans's satisfaction, the police chief stepped over to free Laura and Sam.

"Atlanta chief of police, John Stalans," he identified himself. "Anyone else in the house?"

"Thank you so much," Laura gasped as the tape finally came free from her hands. "No, there's no one else. Have you found my son? Or my husband? What's going on?"

"How the hell should I know?" Stalans asked in annoyance, irritated that Paulson wasn't there. He ripped the tape off of Sam so he could stand as well. "I just now found your house. I'll know where the others are as soon as this scumbag tells me."

Sam frowned at the lack of professionalism, but didn't take it personally. Their rescuer had the air of a man on a mission. Laura also frowned with displeasure at his apparent lack of concern for her family, but she also held her tongue, reluctantly recognizing the futility of losing her temper.

"I suggest you two go find somewhere else to be for a while," Stalans continued, eyeing Bruce menacingly. For his part, Bruce glared back defiantly, knowing Paulson's wrath would be much worse than Stalans's.

"No, we'll stay and hear this," Laura told him firmly.

Stalans didn't find much joy in intimidating women, but he needed her out. He had questioned Bruce before… the man was tough. There was a possibility that whatever he had to do to get the information might not be entirely legal and he didn't need a witness for it.

"Get out and let me work," he snapped, stepping forward and glaring down at Laura.

"I'm staying!" Laura snapped back, also stepping forward. Despite the height difference of nearly a foot, she glared just as fiercely at the Atlanta police chief. "I want to know where my son is!"

"Laura," Sam whispered, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Laura, we should let him do what he has to." Sam wasn't intimidated in the slightest by Stalans – having been Fenton's partner for so many years – but he understood why the chief wanted to be alone. Sam was a private investigator, after all. He had been in this situation far too many times where time was of the essence and information couldn't always be gotten legally. He wanted to know where Paulson, Fenton, and Frank were just as badly, but they would only slow Stalans down and he knew it.

"No, Sam!" Laura swatted his hand away. "I want-"

"Laura, we can go get Joe."

Sam had said the magic words. Backing away instantly, Laura nodded grudgingly at Stalans, waving him on as she followed Sam out the door.

"Did you actually take him to the police station, then?" she asked as they walked out the front door.

"There wasn't time," Sam admitted. "I had to leave him in the car and tell him to stay down."

Laura stopped in her tracks at the front porch steps. She stared incredulously at Sam. "You… left him in the car?"

"What was I supposed to do, Laura?" Sam scowled, misinterpreting her look. "I had to come in to get you, or Fenton would've-"

"No, no," Laura amended. "I'm not angry, Sam… I _do_ appreciate you coming after me. It's just… you didn't really believe Joe would stay there, did you?"

"It's alright, he promised he would," Sam reassured her, heading towards the driveway. Laura didn't move. "What's the matter?" Sam asked, turning around.

"Sam," Laura said, shaking her head sadly. "This is why you don't have any children."

Sam stared back at her until the implications of what she was saying dawned on him. The blood drained from his face and he rushed to the car where he knew he had left Joe not that long before. The seat was empty. Joe was gone.

* * *

"So, it's just us now," Stalans said with a smile. Bruce didn't answer. He wouldn't talk.

"I'm only going to ask once. Where is Paulson?" Stalans asked in a voice that matched even the mob boss's in ruthlessness.

"I ain't tellin' you nothin'," Bruce retorted, glaring at the police chief. He wouldn't betray his boss. Nothing the chief said or did could make him.

Two seconds later, Bruce changed his mind. He gasped as the cold, unrelenting metal of a gun found its way directly between his legs. From his position on the chair with his hands cuffed behind him, he could barely move even if sheer horror hadn't frozen him in place.

"Fine, I'll ask one more time," Stalans snarled as he pressed the gun in harder against its target. "Where is he?"

"You won't do it," Bruce finally managed to choke out, deciding to hold his ground and call Stalans's bluff. It was a mistake... Stalans wasn't bluffing. The chief's eyes narrowed and he shoved the gun in even harder, causing Bruce to groan in discomfort.

"I won't?" Stalans asked quietly, only inches away from Bruce's face. "Look me in the eye, you scumbag, and tell me that you really believe I won't do it."

There was no need. Bruce already knew.

"He's at the old train station."

* * *

"What the hell?" Collig muttered to himself as they approached the Hardy residence. Once he had realized what was going on – confirmed by the federal agents' positive ID of the two men in the video footage – he had headed out immediately. Now, from the amount of cars in the driveway, it looked like he had missed an invitation to a party.

"Laura!" he yelled, catching sight of her and Sam as they emerged from one of the cars that they had apparently been examining. He watched as Laura's face sagged in relief at seeing him and she rushed over.

"Ezra!" she gasped. "Thank God! Where's Fenton? Did he come with you? Did you find Frank? No one will tell me what's going on!"

"Slow down," Collig said, taking her hand and patting it soothingly. "I'm sorry, we still don't know where Fenton or Frank are. What about you? Are you alright?"

"We're fine," Sam answered for her as Laura bit her lip to keep from crying at the news that her entire family was still missing. "John Stalans is inside with one of the men right now-"

As he spoke, Stalans came rushing out of the house. Ignoring the entire contingency of local and federal officers completely, he jumped into his car and sped out down the road before anyone could stop him.

"Now where does he think he's going?" Agent Bishop wondered aloud. Collig rolled his eyes heavenward.

"I'd say he's after your dangerous criminal," he pointed out, heading in towards the house. "And I'd also say that whoever he had in here is the one who told him. I'm going to find out, and then we're all going after him."

* * *

Meanwhile, the standoff at the train station was going nowhere. Joe had the gun pulled on Paulson, but they both knew he would never be able to use it. Never in his life had Joe been in such a horrible situation.

"I mean it," Joe said, his voice trembling as he tried to appear to be the one in control. "Just… just don't move."

Paulson smiled at the young boy with a mixture of amusement and disdain. What a little upstart this child was!

"Put it down, boy," Paulson sneered hoarsely. "You don't have what it takes to use that." To prove his point, he set his own gun down on the table beside him. Spreading his arms wide, he tilted his body so that Joe had the largest possible range. "Go ahead," he taunted. "Go ahead, shoot me then."

Joe's bottom lip quivered slightly as he stared back at the bad guy, unsure of what to do. Seeing his hesitation only provided more entertainment for Paulson.

"Like I thought," he said softly. "You can't do it."

"No," a deadly soft voice agreed. "No, he can't."

Paulson turned around in response to the voice. To his surprise, the other Hardy brat had apparently just made the return journey to reality. Since his father had already untied him, he stood right up and walked over to Joe. Paulson made no move to stop him. What did he care where the boy was standing when he killed him?

"Frank?" Joe asked wide-eyed, his face splitting into a huge grin despite the horrible seriousness of the situation. His brother was back! He wanted to grab Frank up in a hug, but was held back by the fact that Paulson was still there in easy reach of his own gun, and also from some unidentifiable difference in Frank. Joe was overwhelmed with relief – ecstatic, unbridled relief – but… something was still wrong.

Taking the gun from Joe, Frank held it in his own hands, eyeing it in quiet contemplation. As soon as he picked it up, blood from his hands spilled over the barrel and hilt of the weapon. It would remain there forever. He watched the blood slowly drip from his hands onto the gun, and from the gun to the floor. He looked at the blood that had stained Joe. He looked at the blood droplets on the floor that left a trail behind him wherever he went. He was so tired of the blood… it was time to end this. Slowly, deliberately, Frank brought the gun up to point unwaveringly at the criminal's head.

"Frank?" Joey whispered, tugging his brother's sleeve. "What are you doing?" The initial thankfulness at finding his brother awake evaporated quickly. This was scary. The boy next to him looked like Frank, for sure, but Joe was starting to fear his brother was gone forever. "Frank, don't!"

Frank stared at Paulson with wide-open eyes, though it almost seemed as though he were still gone. One voice in the back of his head urged him to stop this before he went too far, but the other voice told him to look at his father, apparently dead on the ground, and at his brother, terrified out of his wits. There was no one else to save them. No one else was coming. Joey needed help. He, Frank, would help.

He shouldn't kill the man though! He had already done that before! It was wrong… this man, whoever he was, wasn't worth it! No more blood. He wasn't worth it.

But Joe was worth it. His father was worth it. This man had hurt his family, and Frank simply didn't care about himself anymore. Let the blood come… he would protect them.

"Joe can't do it," Frank repeated, sounding dangerously detached. "But I can." An eerie smile grew on his face. "I already have."

It was in that moment that Paulson caught sight of the look in the young Hardy's eyes.

It was in that moment that he wondered if this was how all his own victims had felt, watching their own death staring them in the face.

It was in that moment that Frank made up his mind.

And it was in that moment – as the thirteen year old boy laughed hollowly and pulled the trigger – that Paulson realized that he had made a very horrible mistake.

* * *

_TBC_

* * *

_Muwahaha, you thought everything was going to be ok... and I'm so evil, leaving you here for another week or two, but what can I say. Again, sorry this chapter might not be as good, but I really am losing my mind here. I'll still try and review everyone else's stories though. Thanks, everyone! _


	22. In Which Redemption Cometh

_A/N: I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack! I am SO sorry for neglecting both my replies to your wonderful reviews and your stories. I'll catch up on them either tomorrow or the next day. Anyways, I've finished my test and it's finally done with. But for any of you out there contemplating a career as a pharmacist, I do have one piece of advice: DON'T DO IT!! IF YOU VALUE YOUR SANITY, STICK TO WRITING FANFICTION! You won't make any money at all, but money won't buy your sanity back, just a padded room with a better view. _

_Ok, I'll stop using the darn test as an excuse to not write now, and I do apologize for leaving everyone hanging for so long. But, I can now resume my life to its standard state of abnormalacy._

_To angry penguin, ukfan 101, franknjoe, jabh, sleuth girl, Vinsmouse, Red Hardy, Spitfire0, and Helen Louise: I'm SO SORRY for not replying! Consider yourselves thanked and hugged. The last few weeks have been miserable but I truly appreciate more than words can say that you took time to drop me a line. Thank you so much! _

_I don't own the Hardys. With that out of the way, we continue._

* * *

"Frank!"

Ignoring Paulson completely, Joe grabbed the gun back out of Frank's hands, but it was too late. The shot had been fired and the criminal had already fallen to the ground. Frank blinked in surprise at his younger brother who stared so fearfully up at him.

"Joey?"

"Frank, why did you do that?" Joe choked out, utterly heartbroken. "Why did you kill him?"

"I didn't," Frank assured him, nodding in Paulson's direction. Joe turned to look just as Paulson found his voice again, bellowing in agony and writhing on the dirty floor as bright red blood blossomed out of his right thigh, just above the kneecap.

"You little bastard!" he yelled, his voice thick with pain from both the bullet wound and the strain on his damaged throat. "You shot me, you damn brat!"

"Don't pretend like you didn't deserve that," Frank snapped, swelling with indignation and righteous anger. He turned his back on the criminal. "Joe, are you alright?"

Joe nodded, filled with awe at the new side of his brother he was seeing. He wavered slightly, feeling light-headed, causing Frank to step forward in concern.

Taking advantage of their momentary lapse of attention to him, Paulson suddenly remembered the gun he had placed on the table while taunting Joe. Jerking sideways, he reached out and upset the table, throwing the gun to the floor and snatching it up in his hands.

At the sudden movement, Frank spun in his direction, but Joe was closer. He had been scared and unsure of what to do all night, but now he acted out of pure instinct as a sudden, alien feeling of intense anger flared up within him. It was _this_ man – _this _bad guy on the floor – who had caused Frank so much pain. It was _this _man who had nearly made Joe lose the only brother he had.

Perhaps it was a dumb move, with the gun so close. Perhaps it was a reckless and impulsive thing to do, but it made him feel better for having done it. Ignoring the gun that he held in his own hand, Joe opted instead to jump high into the air. With years of practice wrestling with his brother, Joe slammed all his weight down on Paulson's leg with a crushing force, right where the bullet had entered. Pure, unadulterated, stabbing pain splintered through the mob boss… it hurt so badly he couldn't even yell. The torturous pain, coupled with the amount of blood he had already lost from the gunshot wound, threw him into a merciful state of unconsciousness.

"That's what you get, you big bully!" Joe yelled at the limp form on the floor, greatly emboldened by the fact that Paulson was no longer awake. He sat down hard on the floor himself, the force of the jump jarring his still tender ankle, not fully healed yet from Atlanta. "That's for my dad!"

At the words, the familiar feeling of tears burning in Frank's eyes but not falling returned with a vengeance. His dad… Frank had gotten so caught up with Paulson, he hadn't spared a thought for those who had already been hurt because of him.

"Dad…" he whispered, turning to where his father lay on the floor. "Dad, I'm so sorry… it's all my fault…"

"It wasn't your fault," Joe argued, not understanding how even his guilt-prone brother could blame that particular incident on himself. "It was Paulson who hit him."

"It _is_ my fault!" Frank yelled in sudden self-anger. "If I hadn't… if I had just… you wouldn't have gotten hurt and Dad… Dad would still be alive."

"But… Dad's not dead, Frank."

A jolt ran through his heart, every fiber in him quivering. Frank looked up at his brother's words, hardly daring to hope.

"What?"

"Of course I'm not," Fenton said thickly from behind them, holding his fiercely pounding head as he heaved himself up into a sitting position. "I'll be fine." As he cleared the cobwebs, reality slowly returned to Fenton and he suddenly realized how much the situation had changed since he had last been conscious. Frank was awake! And, inexplicably, Joe was… _there_.

"Frank! Joe!" he yelled, getting to his feet quickly, sending a rush of blood to his head. Groaning, he sat back down as both his sons ran over to him. Catching them both up in a tight embrace, Fenton held them close as he scanned the room to see what else he may have missed. His eyes went wide as he looked between Paulson, who was on the floor, covered in blood with a gaping hole in his leg, and Joe, who he suddenly realized was holding a gun.

"Joe!" Snatching the gun from his youngest son, Fenton quickly checked to see if it had been fired. Sure enough, there was a single bullet missing. "Joe, did you _shoot_ him?"

"No!" Joe said defensively. He pointed at his brother, his eyes growing wide and appeasing. "Frank did it, not me!"

"Hey!" Frank protested, feeling more like his old self than he had in days. He pointed at Joe in retaliation. "_He's_ the one who stomped on him!"

Fenton blinked, at an utter loss. There was really no way to respond to such an exchange. As he sat there, trying to find words, the door burst open none other than Atlanta Police Chief Stalans barged through the door with gun drawn.

"Police, everyone freeze!" he yelled, glancing wildly around. His face fell, almost comically, as he caught sight of Paulson already on the ground. His eyes swept across the rest of the building, seeing the three Hardys and the gun in Fenton's hand.

"Hardy, I wanted to do that," he complained with a sigh, walking forward to stand over Paulson and ignoring Fenton's indignant sputtering. He smiled. "Looks like I finally got you, Paulson," he informed the unconscious man contentedly. "You're going to jail for a good long time. It's just a shame you can't move… I would've loved for you to try and run."

Stalans frowned when Paulson neglected to respond. This was no fun… stomping back outside, he cast around on the ground until he found a rusty bucket that had been left outside. It was nearly full of rainwater it had collected, which was exactly what he had been hoping for. Carrying it back inside, Stalans flung the entire thing, bucket and all, onto Paulson's limp form.

Paulson sputtered and choked on the water as he was brutally dragged back to consciousness. The throbbing in his leg returned full force and he yelled out a long string of angry expletives. Stalans grinned happily to witness Paulson's pain, wishing with a sigh that the Hardys weren't sitting there. He would have had a lot more fun if it were just him and Paulson.

For the second time that night, the door was suddenly kicked in forcefully as three officers, Chief Collig, and the two FBI agents burst into the train station. The rotten wood, angry at such abuse, decided to give up altogether and simply fell apart, raining splinters down on the law enforcement.

"Everyone down!" Collig yelled as they waved their guns around warily. He pulled up as he realized that everyone _was_ down. His face lit up as he saw Fenton with his arms holding both sons close to him.

"Excellent timing," Fenton said with a wry smile. "You'll be the third one to get him tonight."

Collig grinned. Leaving the FBI agents and his officers to restrain Paulson and argue with Stalans, he made his way over to the three Hardys and knelt down next to them.

"Everyone alright?" he asked with concern.

Fenton nodded. "I got hit in the head," he explained, wincing as he reached back to feel the lump that had formed. He fought his way through the mental fog, trying to remember what else had happened. "He was-" Fenton gasped suddenly, startling his sons as he tried to jump to his feet. "Laura! And Sam! Ezra, we have to-"

"It's ok, they're alright!" Collig hurriedly explained, gently pushing his friend back down. "You have Chief Stalans to thank for that. Apparently, he showed up in the nick of time. Laura's just fine, Fenton."

"I have to _see_ them," Fenton insisted, struggling to stand up again. Frank and Joe watched on with wide eyes. Frank's heart was pounding. He agreed with his dad… he had to see them, too. If he had caused other deaths…

"Ok, hang on. _Hang on_," Collig said firmly. He pulled out his radio, keeping one hand on Fenton to keep him seated as he spoke into it. "It's all clear, you can bring her in now."

All three Hardys breathed a collective sigh of relief as Sam Radley peered around the doorway. He was quickly knocked aside as Laura shoved her way through, reaching for her family.

"Fenton," she gasped, sinking to the floor and burying herself in his arms. "Thank God!" He held on to her tightly, feeling her shaking with emotion. Fenton stroked her hair, whispering words of comfort in her ear.

"And my boys," she said with a watery smile, breaking apart from her husband so she could get a good look at her sons. "Frank, Joe… thank God you're alright! Joe, don't you _ever_ do that to me again, _do_ _you_ _hear_ _me_?"

"Joe, what exactly _are_ you doing here?" Fenton asked, remembering suddenly that he still didn't know. "Wasn't Sam supposed to be keeping an eye on you?" He raised an eyebrow, glanced pointedly up at Sam as he spoke, who in turn looked uncomfortable and apologetic.

"Fenton, I…" he trailed off miserably.

"Don't worry, Sam," Laura said, taking pity on their old friend. "I'm sure Fenton realizes that he has no right to say anything about _not keeping a close enough eye on his sons_." She matched Fenton's pointed look, daring her husband to argue. Fenton took the hint. Remembering that all of this had began while he had left Frank and Joe alone in Atlanta, he coughed in embarrassment and didn't press the matter.

"No... no, of course not, dear. As for you, Joe-"

"Mom, I'm so glad you're ok," Joe interrupted his father, allowing his lip to quiver slightly so that his parents would switch from "let's get mad at Joe" mode to "let's make dear little Joey feel better, the poor thing!" mode. "When he called that other guy… and said… when he said to… I thought you were..." he sniffled, a single tear coursing down his cheek.

Frank rolled his eyes, apparently the only one not fooled, but he had to admit his little brother was good at getting the required pity. His parents both immediately melted at Joe's tragic little face and pulled both boys into a family hug again, all thoughts of Joe's misbehavior forgotten.

Frank jumped slightly at the touch, but settled down quickly. He allowed himself to be held tightly by his family, though he couldn't return the gesture. While he thought his parents weren't watching, Frank looked down sadly, staring at his bright red, sticky hands. With a weary sigh, he closed them into fists, pulling them close to his body. Emerging from his nightmare was a relief beyond words, but he had dearly hoped that in the return to reality, the blood would be left behind.

* * *

"You'll be glad to hear, Paulson," Stalans said vindictively, watching the paramedics working on the handcuffed man. "It was your own man who sold you out. The one you left at the Hardys house was perfectly willing to tell me everything he knew."

"More than once," Agent Markison jumped in. "All we had to do was walk in and he started talking before we even had a chance to ask where you had gone. He's already on his way to jail and from the looks of things," he added, staring at the Derek's body bag in the corner. "you took care of the other one for us. Tracking down the rest of your organization should be a piece of cake now."

"You'll get credit for the arrest," Agent Bishop reassured Stalans, who was beaming ear to ear with the knowledge that finally – FINALLY – he had got his prey. He had made the arrest. At Bishop's words, however, his smile quickly dissolved into an unfriendly glare.

"No, I won't. You damn feds will take all the credit and you know it."

"Well, you _are _out of your jurisdiction," Agent Markison pointed out unhelpfully. "So I'd say-"

"_Jurisdiction_? Who gives a damn? I was here first, and _I'm_ the one who-"

"It doesn't matter right now," Collig interrupted before Bishop could retort, seeing an all-out brawl approaching. "He's staying right here in Bayport until he's fit to be moved out of the hospital anyways, and right now _I'm_ in charge. So, if you'll excuse me…"

Frank watched with satisfaction as Chief Collig read Paulson his rights as he was lifted onto the stretcher. Fenton put a comforting hand on Frank's shoulder, though Frank was careful not to touch him. As always, he kept his hands in front of him, palms up and held close so as not to get blood on anything.

"Frank, you should know," Fenton remembered suddenly. "Dr. Richardson wasn't killed. He's in the hospital, but he's doing well and they expect him to make a full recovery."

Frank smiled, too emotionally and physically exhausted to voice his relief. The mere knowledge was enough to lift a huge burden from his shoulders however.

"That's good…"

There was more he wanted to say… more that still needed to be done. But at that moment, his depleted stores of energy utterly betrayed him and he collapsed to the ground.

* * *

_TBC_

_

* * *

A/N: Well, as much as I've loved writing this story, and as much as I hope you've loved reading it, it's time to wind down. One more chapter to pull everything together, and I think we'll call it a wrap. Thank you so much to everyone's who's supported this from the beginning. You faithful reviewers have meant everything to me, as I'm sure you fellow authors can understand. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!_


	23. In Which the Adventure Ends

_A/N: Well, here we are. The finale at last... I truly hope you all have enjoyed this story, and I can't thank you enough for all the support your reviews have given me. I want to thank especially everyone who's stuck with this from the beginning! I hope the wait was worth it! _

_I don't have any more Hardy stories in the works at this moment... There's another Dukes of Hazzard fic that I have to finish before I start another one, but I'm sure I'll have more in the future! And I'll definitely be around to read all the other great stories here. Thank you again, you all are fantastic! Peace!_

_Once and for all, I do not own the Hardys. _

* * *

_Blood dripped from the stone cold walls, showering down on him in evil sheets. Angry voices echoed all around him, whispering accusing words. A door appeared on the wall. The way out! He grasped it and threw it open. This time, there was no relief – instead, a hundred bloody skeletons fell out, smothering him on the floor as they all cackled and called his name. Fraaaaaaaaank!_

"Fraaaaaaaank! Hey, Frank!"

Frank woke with a start, covered in sweat. Joey was kneeling on the bed next to him, leaning over him and shaking his shoulder. Frank took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. For a few horrible moments, he had truly believed he was back in that horrible place. For a few terrifying minutes, he wished there was a way to self-destruct and save himself.

"Just dreaming," he muttered to himself. "Joey, what are you doing?"

Joey glanced around conspiratorially before answering. "Mom and Dad just stepped out. They're going to ship that bad guy out in a little bit and they wanted to talk to the FBI guys. But then you started getting upset so I thought I'd wake you up."

Frank sat up, looking around. For the second time that week, he was in a hospital bed.

"What happened?"

"You passed out, and Dad brought you here. You feeling ok yet? I kinda wanna go home."

Frank rolled his eyes, only vaguely listening. The hospital… Frank shoved the blankets back, spattering bright red on the clean white sheets and rolled out of the bed. Ignoring Joey's confused questions, he padded quietly out of the door and down the hall.

Finding the nurse's station was easy enough, and Frank soon found out where Dr. Richardson's room was. With Joey following behind him like a bewildered shadow, Frank knocked quietly on the door and poked his head inside the psychiatrist's room.

"Frank?" Dr. Richardson asked in surprise, sitting up in the bed as he saw his young patient. His tired face broke into a smile. "Frank, I was so worried about you! Please, come on in!"

"Joe, go back in case Mom and Dad wonder where I am, ok? I have to talk to the doctor alone," Frank said, slipping in and shutting the door behind him, leaving Joe outside. Sniffing like his Aunt Gertrude did when she felt affronted, Joe turned and went back to Frank's hospital room, grumbling the entire way about ungrateful brothers.

"So, you turned up alright!" Richardson said. "How are you holding up?"

Frank shrugged, coming to sit next to the doctor. Richardson was struck by how much change he could see in the young boy since their first meeting a few days ago.

"I thought you were dead," Frank said quietly. "I thought they'd killed you… _I'd_ killed you…"

"It wouldn't have been your fault, Frank," Richardson said firmly, patting Frank's arm. "I'm just relieved _you _made it as far as you did. It seems like things are looking up for you."

"But I can still see the blood," Frank said in a low voice. "And I'm still the only one who can. I just… I want to be fixed. I was mad at first, that they were making me come see you, but… I'm tired of the blood. I… can't you fix me?"

Dr. Richardson inhaled deeply and slowly, wincing as his chest flared up in pain. He smiled compassionately down at the young boy before him.

"Frank, you don't need to be fixed," he said gently. "You said before that it was your soul that was bleeding. Remember that?"

Frank nodded. He still believed it. He had committed murder, surely he would have to be punished.

"If your finger was bleeding, what would you do?"

"Put a band-aid on, I guess," Frank shrugged, confused by the question.

"You would put a band-aid on. The band-aid doesn't _fix_ everything, Frank. Even with a band-aid you still get a scar, and in time it fades away. So, put a band-aid on. It was an accident, Frank. You didn't stab yourself in the soul, did you? You never intended for him to die. It was just an accident… patch yourself up and have faith that time will heal you."

"But how?"

"Have faith, Frank." Richardson's composed voice cracked slightly, causing Frank to glance up at him. The doctor shook his head. "It was never your fault," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "It should never have belonged to you at all. It was that Paulson who is to blame. Give the blood to him, Frank. It was always his."

Frank sat quietly, digesting all that Richardson was saying. Finally, he stood and started for the door.

"Thank you for the talk," he said solemnly. "I should probably go back before they miss me."

"And Frank?" the psychiatrist said, regaining his composure as the young Hardy turned with his hand on the doorknob. "Steinway may have been a stranger to you, but you were still closely affected by his death. You need to grieve, Frank. Don't be afraid to mourn him. Every life deserves to be mourned."

Frank nodded, filing the idea away in his mind for a later time, when he wasn't feeling so confused.

"Thank you," he whispered before turning away and walking out the door.

* * *

Fenton smiled grimly as he watched the FBI agents bundling Paulson towards the door. It hadn't taken much to convince Collig that all the criminal needed was a few stitches and enough antibiotics to make sure he didn't develop an infection and die on his way to a federal prison. Collig wanted him out of Bayport as soon as possible and had readily agreed.

Chief Stalans had been rather irate when he learned the federal agents were truly going to take all credit on the arrest, and had already stormed out of the building. Fenton honestly didn't care _who_ took him away, as long as he was gone. It was rather satisfying to see him limping along, handcuffed between the two agents.

"Frank, what are you doing up?" he heard Laura ask from beside him. Fenton turned in surprise to see his eldest son standing behind them, watching Paulson being taken away with a thoughtful face.

Frank didn't answer, but only watched, his mind struggling to make sense of everything Richardson had told him. He glanced down at his bloody hands as the doctor's voice echoed through his head..._ Give the blood to him, Frank. It was always his. _And then he knew what he had to do. Shrugging away from his parents, Frank hurried towards the criminal.

"Frank!" Fenton called, following his son, but Frank refused to be deterred. As he approached, the two officers stopped, puzzled.

"Paulson," Frank said in a clear voice, halting Fenton in his tracks as he watched to see what Frank would do. Paulson, for his part, was neither impressed nor confused by Frank's behavior. He stood impassively, waiting for Frank to get to his purpose.

"Paulson," Frank continued, stopping in front of the criminal. "This is for you. I don't want it."

The officers in the room all stared at him in confusion, not understanding what he meant, but Frank didn't care. Paulson didn't say anything but merely glared at the young Hardy. Possibly it was only Frank's imagination, but for a second – just for the swiftest part of a second – the criminal's eyes flickered down at the blood that coated Frank's hands.

"That's right," Frank whispered. "It's on your soul, not mine." With that, he took hold of the front of Paulson's shirt and used it to wipe all the blood from his hands.

The odd move finally elicited a reaction from Paulson. Jerking back out of Frank's reach, he glared at the young boy, trying to shake off the officers' hands which held him in place.

"Let's go, buddy," Agent Bishop said, shoving their prisoner towards the door and disappearing forever.

"Joe, there you are.." Frank heard his dad say as his brother showed up next to him. "Frank, do you need to sit down?"

Frank shook his head, not realizing how pale he looked. The motion caused him to feel dizzy as he fought to control himself. He could not loose the tears… he had to stay strong… he had to…. Frank sank down to the floor right where he was, quickly followed by his brother and parents.

"Frank, honey?" Laura asked softly, brushing his dark hair out of his face. "Are you alright?"

Frank glanced around at the loving faces around him and it was all too much. He _didn't_ have to be strong... they were there to be strong for him when he could not be. _You need to grieve…_For the first time since the warehouse in Atlanta, the tears which had been dammed behind Frank's stubborn eyes were set free, and he let them come. _Every life deserves to be mourned…_ Allowing the strong arms that surrounded him from three sides to enfold him in a warm blanket of comfort, Frank broke down and sobbed.

* * *

"Frank, Chet and Biff are gonna be here soon. Mom says to come eat something before they get here."

Frank looked up as his brother delivered his message. The older boy nodded, sighing as he looked out the window. While he felt much better and happier than he had all week, he was still inclined to be a little on the moodier side. Joe had decided that the best cure for that was a gory, scary movie at the cinema and had planned accordingly. Frank was shocked his parents had agreed to it.

"Joe…"

Joe waited expectantly, a hopeful look on his face. Frank shook his head.

"Nothing."

But he knew there was still something he had to say. Although Frank hadn't seen any blood since his last encounter with Paulson, he still curled his hands in on themselves out of habit so that he didn't actually touch Joe as he gave him an awkward hug.

"Frank?" Joe asked, slightly startled but eagerly returning the hug. "What is it?"

"Thank you," Frank whispered, from the bottom of his heart. He had heard Joe's account of what had happened, and he knew now that it was truly Joe's voice calling him that had kept him from the brink of utter annihilation. It was his younger brother who was the hero that day, and Frank wanted to make sure Joey knew it.

"You saved me," he said quietly, pulling out of the hug and staring sincerely at Joe.

"You saved me," Joe pointed out with a shrug. "I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did," Frank said firmly. Joe smiled.

"Let's settle for we saved each other," he offered. Frank smiled back and nodded.

"Frank," Joe started hesitantly. His brother still hadn't spoken about what had happened to him, but for Joe, curiosity was and always would be insatiable. "Frank… where were you? I mean, when I came in to the train station… you weren't… _there_. I mean, you were there but you… weren't. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Frank said quietly. It made far too much sense.

"What… what happened?"

Frank inhaled deeply and shivered, a distant look coming back into his eyes. How could he explain that terrible place to his still innocent brother?

He remembered with dread the cold, dark corridor, filled with walls that seeped and oozed blood. He remembered the macabre, dancing body of Bill Steinway. He remembered the voices that taunted him, calling his name until he nearly went crazy. He remembered how much he had just wanted to die right there, just to escape the most horrible nightmare of any nightmare he had ever had or ever would have again.

And then, for the first time in his life, Frank told Joey a lie.

"I'm sorry, Joe… I can't remember."

* * *

Fenton listened to his sons from the other room, a proud smile on his face. The events of the past week had changed them, it was true. He could _see_ a new level of maturity in both his sons, a look that came from having seen the darker side of the world and passing through it undamaged, if not untouched.

Frank had been affected the most. His eyes never did regain the youthful impishness that Joe's still held. Those dark eyes, so much like his father's, regained their warmth but would forever be veiled and careful. There were still moments when Fenton's older son would stop talking and just sit back, listening quietly and thoughtfully. He was no longer an impetuous teenager, but a responsible and intelligent young man with a new wisdom and respect for life.

Joe had also toned down a minor degree, but not nearly as much as Frank. He was still – and would always be – the impulsive one who wore his heart on his sleeve. To Fenton's amusement, his sons' personalities, although being completely different, did not cause them to clash. Rather, they now complemented each other perfectly, playing off of each other's strengths to work even better together than they had before. They were going to be alright.

"Boys!" he heard Laura call from the kitchen. "Chet and Biff are here!"

"We'll be right there!" Frank yelled back as Joe happily ran outside. Frank hung back, reflecting.

The nightmares were still there, as well as the guilt. He knew he was never going to be the same, but he was desperately hoping that all of them could move on regardless. There was only one way that was going to happen.

He had to be sure the blood was gone for good. It had come off easily enough, but Frank had tried to keep himself from placing too much faith in the cleansing power of a criminal's shirt front. He was still terrified it might come back at any moment. So, where before he had constantly been looking down at his hands to see the blood, he now refused to even glanced down for a second.

It was time. He had to know, he had to see. There would be no moving on until he had done this smallest of tasks… he would not live in fear.

Steeling himself, Frank looked down at his hands. He smiled. No more blood. His hands were clean.

**The End**


End file.
